Free Boats on Land: A Collection of Short Stories by Janice Pariat Page A

on the water, the reeds bow in steady reverence. I realize that no one is truly ever gone. All voices are heard in a river’s murmuring.
    If I get lucky, I manage to reel in a kha bah and hold it in my hand, its scales smooth and brittle, glistening like broken rainbows in the sun. I am yet to catch a Golden Mahseer. If I do, I will set it free and hope Mama Kyn will find it.

Secret Corridors

T hat morning the world had shrunk to the size of a mole. A small, chestnut-coloured spot to the left of a cupid’s bow that dropped elegantly away from a soft and full middle. It was a mouth that made Natalie think of forbidden things, like the forest behind her house, which she wasn’t allowed to explore, or the pink roadside ice sticks she’d been expressly instructed not to taste. That morning, the intricacies of chemistry didn’t interest her as much as Iba’s mouth; and the face to which it belonged, she thought, was just as attractive. Boyish, some said, but not for Natalie. She liked Iba’s slanting eyes and the smooth plane of her cheeks. It was a face infinitely more interesting than anything Mrs Chatterjee had to say about centrifugation.
    ‘This machine will rotate rapidly. And then what will happen? The milk and cream will separate. Why this will happen?’
    It was the first lesson of the day, and the room, filled with forty-five girls, bristled with restlessness. Sister Josephine, the headmistress, had announced at morning assembly that the school fête would be held next month, and the girls were distracted, silently planning what they would wear, which stalls they would visit. When Iba bent over her textbook, Natalie shifted her attention to the view outside the window. The school was built on a terraced hillside, and their classroom overlooked the playground, which in turn offered a sprawling view of the town swelling across the hills in rambling disarray. Below, rows of eight-year-olds in cloudy grey pinafores moved in aerobic tandem to the PE teacher’s drumbeat. The basketball court nearby was overrun by class ten students, two years senior to Natalie. She watched Amanda, a tall girl with cropped hair, execute a perfect lay-up. One, two, three, and shoot. The ball dropped gracefully through the hoop. Amanda sprinted back to her friends, laughing. She had the largest number of ‘fans’ in school—junior girls who blushed at the sight of her, aching for a glance or a smile, and dropped love notes into her lunch bag or had them sent through a giggling messenger. Beyond the court, a row of jacarandas were on the threshold of bursting into violet blossoms. Spring was in the air, with March winds tugging at their school skirts in a blustery frenzy. For the students at L—Convent, Shillong, it meant three months of winter vacation had come to an end. Natalie’s daydreams were interrupted by a nudge in the ribs. Her benchmate Manisha was staring straight ahead at Mrs Chatterjee, who’d asked Natalie a question. The class had dissolved into giggles. Natalie flushed.
    ‘Sorry, miss.’
    ‘Come, sit here.’ The teacher rapped the desk in front of her. From there, she wouldn’t be able to see Iba; worse, she’d be next to Carmel.
    ‘Sorry, miss, I…’
    ‘Nothing doing. You want to be sent to Sister Josephine?’
    Natalie dragged herself over—a few faces flashed small sympathetic smiles—while Carmel ignored the proceedings and filled her pen with ink. Within this classroom, like every other, there were invisible lines of demarcation as strict as in any church or temple. Who it was acceptable to eat lunch with, who you could partner for arts and crafts, who to include in your team for Danish Rounders, and, rising singularly above the rest, who you sat next to in class. Nobody, for instance, would willingly occupy a seat beside Rini, the Mizo with body odour; Paromita, the Bengali whose hair oil smelled peculiar; or Erica, the Jaintia girl who threw up on her desk every other day. Carmel, however, was