Free Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel by Samina Ali Page A

back. The palm was painted red with henna. She didn’t stop sweeping.
    I stared across the courtyard. Only the cook, Munir, was stirring about in the kitchen. “I know how you’ve helped women on the farm,” I whispered to her back. “I know what you learned … to do when you were growing up on my grandfather’s land.” I was talking about the very thing Sabana feared, jadu, black magic.
    “Me no know what you say, Bitea,” she cried, louder than I wanted. The lamb jerked its head and bayed a final time as it nervously eyed us. “I no can help you!”
    I looked at Amme’s bedroom door. “You must know about the bleeding,” I persisted. “You’ve got to make it stop. I know you can. I’ve heard about the things you can do …”
    She turned and shook the stick broom at me and her eyes squinted into two lines of kohl. The inside of her mouth was filled with the red juice from the tobacco paan, and this forced her to tilt her head up as she spoke. “You no Indian,” she said. “Chance me jadu go backwards. Then you mama throw me out.” She stared at me awhile, willing me to go away, it seemed, but I stayed where I was, fighting an urge I’d never felt before. I wanted to grab that broom and shake it at her, maybe even whack her humped back until she understood my predicament, until she did what she was told.
    I kept my voice steady “I can deny everything,” I said, “but I cannot deny the bleeding. Raga-be, if he throws me out, where will I go? Amme’s right. I’ve got to make his home my home, it’s the only way …”
    “Shhaa, Bitea!” she cried as she gazed across the courtyard once more. Then her eyes locked onto mine before sliding back across the courtyard, and this time I followed her gaze. Just outside the kitchen door, almost hidden around the cement railing of the circular staircase, was my nanny, crouched on the ground, scrutinizing us with that same look she’d given me last night, suspicion, retraction. So this was what held the old woman’s tongue. Indeed, in trying to protect me, Nafiza would certainly tattle to Amme, just as she’d done in the past.
    “Me say again, Bitea. You no Indian. Me jadu no good for you.” She stretched her eyes wide, the brown irises capturing my full form, then the lids clamped down on it.
    I sighed and turned to go back to my room. Just then, I heard her whisper in what sounded like a strange hum, “No worry-worry Bitea. I come when it time. I come me-self.”
     
     
    LATER THAT MORNING, I woke to silence.
    I thought there must have been a fight between Amme and Dad, something so bad it had even stopped the musicians from taking up their instruments. I rose and rushed to the salon, only to find everyone eating, including the two old musicians on the takat facing away from the salon, tea cups and glasses of water set next to their instruments. It was already noon. How was it possible that I had slept seven hours, right through the morning pounding and screaming of the dol and shenai, that damn bleating of the lamb?
    Amme looked up from her plate and nodded at me without saying a word. One of the deep bamboo chairs had been brought out for her and set near the verandah. A plate of rice rested on her lap. Her small feet didn’t reach the floor. She pushed stray hair back from her dark-circled eyes as she called across the courtyard to Nafiza to bring me food. She appeared relieved that I was finally up.
    On the other side of the salon, a rectangular red cloth had been spread over the white sheets, a dastar-khan. Dad and his family sat around it to eat. Dad had his back resting against the wall, and every
now and then, Sabana lifted a spoon and he leaned forward, extending his plate, and she served him. One time, as she was holding up the spoon, Dad and his eldest son, Farzad, brought their plates forward at the same time. Immediately Dad snatched back his plate and when Sabana insisted on attending to him first, he took the spoon from her hand and