Free Flame Tree Road by Shona Patel Page B

remained exactly where they were before he had died. His lungi and vest were folded neatly over the clotheshorse. His books, English calendar, wooden clogs and even his comb with a few black hairs still stuck to them. It almost felt as if his mother had died and his father had gone away. Something was just not adding up, but Biren could not put a finger on it.
    In the evenings Biren felt the urge to walk down the road to meet his father, only to realize with a stab of pain that his father would never come home again. He wished he could talk to Apumashi. She would explain everything. He wanted to go to her house, but Granny would not allow him. “We are in mourning,” she said. “You don’t visit other people in their homes for thirteen days.” In desperation he imitated his mother and rooster called to Apu across the pumpkin patch but there was no answering call back.
    Nitin behaved strangely. He walked around with his hair uncombed and sucked his thumb. He started to wet his bed and after a while he stopped talking entirely. One day Biren saw him put a blue marble inside his mouth. The next thing he knew, Nitin had gulped. Biren rushed over and forced Nitin’s mouth open. He stuck his finger inside and moved it around but the marble was gone.
    “Granny!” screamed Biren, dragging Nitin to Granny’s room. “Nitin swallowed a marble!” To his shock, Granny did not seem to care.
    Biren wandered around in a daze holding Nitin tightly by the hand. His father and mother had both disappeared; now Nitin had swallowed a marble and was surely going to die and nobody cared. What was going on?
    Then out of the blue Nitin fell on the ground and threw a tantrum. He screamed and begged and promised never to play with his mother’s sari again. Nobody, except Biren, knew what the hysteria was about. Biren knew for certain their mother had not gone away because Nitin had spoiled her expensive sari. Finally, he could stand it no longer.
    “Where is my ma?” he asked his morose aunt.
    “She will be here soon,” said the aunt.
    “Where is Ma’s sewing basket?” he persisted. “Where are all her things?”
    “They have been disposed of,” said the aunt. “They are contaminated.”
    He heaved a sigh of relief. So that was the problem. His mother had caught an infectious disease and she was in quarantine, which is why nobody was allowed to see her. It was probably measles or chicken pox. Why didn’t they just say so? She would soon recover, and Apumashi would come to wash her hair again and they would laugh and eat chili tamarind in the sun.
    For now, he would have to take care of his younger brother. Biren invented little games for them to play and tried to teach Nitin his ABCs. Nitin solemnly chanted in a singsong with his finger on each letter: “ A for pipra , B for cheley ,” substituting the Bengali words for ant and boy , and Biren did not have the heart to correct him.
    The next day he combed Nitin’s hair, holding him firmly by the chin just as his mother used to do, and took him for a walk down the road.
    “Is Baba coming home today?” Nitin’s small face was bright with hope.
    “Not today,” said Biren. He wondered how much longer he would have to lie to his little brother. How could he explain anything when he was so baffled himself?
    A neighbor they only vaguely knew hurried down the road on her way home from the fish market. She stopped to ask how they were doing, but made no mention of their mother.
    “My mother is getting better,” he called after her. “Come and see her soon.” The neighbor just nodded and hurried along.
    Three days passed in a blur. The house was sickly with the smell of incense and dying tuberoses. Most nights Biren dropped off to sleep from exhaustion. In his dreams he saw black twisted smoke, and smelled burning ghee. He started awake with a great choking sensation, unable to breathe, unable to cry. Every sound was amplified in the night. The soft wheezing snore from his