Free In the Convent of Little Flowers by Indu Sundaresan Page A

of the many balconies. Payal, her voice would ring loud and strong through this house of many rooms. Payal, come down from the champa tree. Girls do not climb trees.
I always listened to her. Then she would clap her hands and one of the not-yet-pregnant maids would materialize with a plate of sweets. In many colors. Purple-tinted coconut burfis, flakes sprinkling the tray; slow-simmered chickpea flour mysore pak, a rich brown and drowning in ghee; gulab jamuns the color of rust, oozing cardamom-scented sugar syrup; silver-foiled cashew squares, taut from the fridge yet melting on contact with my tongue; semolina flour laddus rolled into balls, their uneven curves carrying the imprint of the cook’s fingers.
She rewarded me with those sweets when she called for me. That was why I always came. Now looking at that brown hand in mine, I taste the sweet-sour curd flavor of mishti dohi in my mouth. These fingers, blackened by hatred, had once dipped into a bowl of mishti dohi and fed me.
We had a bond, this woman and I, even though we were years apart in age. She seemed to know what I was thinking, why I was thinking. She seemed to know what I wanted. And then after Kamala was born, she no longer knew who I was. It was as simple as that.
Why so long to come, Payal?
I meet her eyes.
How can you even ask, bitch? I speak in English, a language she is not comfortable with, but I know she understands. I will not give her the pleasure of speaking in Tamil, even though what I have to say will be so much more effective, so much more terrible in that tongue. I use antiseptic English.
Kamala. Her voice is soft; I have to lean over to hear it.
Yes, Kamala. Because of Kamala. You know it is because of Kamala.
In this house of many people, someone or the other was always having children. There was always a baby crawling around, bottom bare, peeing where it wanted, wallowing happily in that pee. And a maid mopping up when she could, or when my mother yelled at her. I never really noticed the babies, except as pesky, snot-nosed, bawling-mouthed, teary-eyed creatures. Or I should say, I pretended very hard not to notice them in case some auntie found my interest charming and left her precious little god with me while she went off shopping.
So I was an unencumbered ten years old when Kamala was born. To my mother.
It was during the summer holidays and the house seemed full of people, hiding in cool, dark corners from the heat. All of my hiding places. I spent that whole vacation in the champa trees, watching the squirrels protest at my presence, watching a bright snake nestle in the branches, drawn by the sweet smell of the flowers. And then Kamala was born. Small, squishy, indeterminate features. A mouth that rarely cried.
That intrigued me. How could a child possibly be so silent? But I still stayed on the periphery, skirting around her, watching from afar. Until my mother forced me to go see her properly (it is only polite, Payal, she’s your sister). I think my mother had forgotten I existed for a while; she had hada difficult pregnancy, and then after Kamala came, she was busy with the visitors.
Kamala lay on a sheet on the floor following me around the room with her brilliant eyes. I think she actually smiled when I slid the gold bangles (that my mother gave me for her—a gesture of protection from an older sister) onto her tiny arms. When the holidays ended and I came home daily from school, I went to her, and she looked for me. I would lie beside her on the floor, and Kamala would grab my hair with her hands and put it in her mouth. Or she would try to entertain me by kicking her legs in the air, silver anklets trilling with each movement, the sound always seeming to take her by surprise. It was her quietness that pervaded my world. Her contentment when I held her—some auntie screaming I was to put a hand under her head for it had not set yet—her first smile, and that not for gas.
Kamala, she says again.
Her free hand, the one I am