Free The Narrow Road to Palem by Sharath Komarraju

expression defiant, as if she was daring the older woman to do her worst. Sister Agnes smiled at her and said in her softest tone, ‘Come in, child. What is your name?’
    The girl walked in, and the door closed behind her. In the light of the mercury tube Sister Agnes saw uncertainty creep into the girl’s face. ‘Do you – have women here?’ The strong voice was nervous; even a little frightened.
    Sister Agnes nodded.
    ‘Women with – no home? No family?’
    Sister Agnes nodded again.
    ‘I have no home. And no family.’
    ‘That is perfectly all right, child. I have no home or a family either.’
    The girl looked up hopefully, almost in joy. ‘Really?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, really. Now, tell me, what is your name?’
    ‘Lata.’
    ‘Is that why you’re so thin, because you’re named after a creeper?’ The girl was big-boned, but her face was drawn with hunger. Sister Agnes wrote down her name in the register and paused for a moment. Then she asked, ‘Are you coming from Palem?’
    ‘Yes, madam.’
    After another pause, Sister Agnes asked softly, ‘And what did you do there?’
    ‘I – I worked at the headman’s house, madam.’
    Worked at the headman’s house . Sister Agnes wrote it down verbatim, closed the book and looked at the girl with a wide smile. ‘Nobody here calls me madam. They call me sister.’
    The girl’s voice was disbelieving. ‘You want me to call you sister?’
    ‘I insist on you calling me sister. Will you?’
    The girl nodded brightly.
    ‘Good. Now, if you stay here, you will have to work. Okay?’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘All of us work here. There is no freeloading. But at the end of each day, after all the work is done, we play.’
    The girl’s eyes shone. ‘What do you play?’
    Sister Agnes said, ‘Different things, my child. Some of us sing, and some of us dance. Some of us tell stories. What would you like to do?’
    ‘I – I am not very talented.’
    ‘Child,’ said Sister Agnes very gently, ‘God gives us talent in one thing or the other. It just takes us time to find it, that’s all.’
    ‘Really? You think I will find it here?’
    ‘Of course you will.’ Sister Agnes leant forward in her seat and patted the girl on her cheek. Raising her voice just a little she called to the maid. ‘Vijaya, please show Lata to the kitchen.’ To Lata she said, ‘Go, child. Go and eat and take some rest. You have walked for long.’
     
    * * *
     
    1970
     
    The portly figure of Subramanya Shastri, Head Priest at Palem’s Shivalayam, stretched out languidly on Komati Satyam’s front porch. Across the steps that led to the front door and into the house, Komati Satyam sat huddled in his easy chair, his stick-like arms hugging the arm-rests, and his fingers wrapped around the edges. He sat with his feet both planted on the ground, not resting back but slouching forward, as though preparing to spring to his feet any moment. Shastri knew from their long association that this meant Satyam was thinking hard about something. He felt around with his hand behind him and found the empty glass. Reaching out for the mud vase that stood between them on the floor, Shastri said, ‘More?’
    Satyam nodded and pushed his glass an inch or two in Shastri’s direction. Shastri filled it, spilling half of it on the floor. ‘Damn,’ he cursed. ‘Turn the lamp on brighter, why don’t you? Can’t see a damned thing.’
    ‘No oil.’ Satyam pressed the brim of his glass to his mouth and closed his eyes. After he downed a gulp he said, ‘She is pregnant, Shastri-gaaru.’
    ‘Hmm? What?’
    ‘Did you not see her today at the old Banyan tree? She has a belly this big.’
    ‘Ah, you mean Lachi.’ Shastri’s tone became relaxed. ‘Why does it bother you so much, Satyam, as long as you are not the – are you the –?’
    ‘Don’t be foolish, Shastri-gaaru! What is her age, and what is mine?’
    ‘Oh, my friend, believe me, these things do not care about your respective ages – merely