Free Ladies Coupe by Anita Nair Page B

waking face. In death, he seemed completely content and relieved.
    ‘It happened just outside the station. At that turning between Central Station and Ripon Building … God knows what he was thinking of when he stepped on to the road. The bus driver claims that he had right of way … There will be an enquiry and all that. But I have some influence with the police department so they gave back the body an hour ago. They have performed a post-mortem so please don’t let the family hug and embrace the body too much. Everything was done in a hurry, you see, so the stitches might not hold too well …’ Someone from Appa’s office spoke quietly to Subramani Iyer. Akhila tried to fit a face to that voice but through the haze of tears all she could see was a miasma of features.
    Was he one of her father’s tormentors? Was he one of those they had learned to hate? Was he the man who caused their father so much anguish that he lost all ability to draw pleasure from any of their little triumphs?
    So that when Narayan or Akhila won a prize at school,
the only way he knew how to respond was by sinking low into himself and sighing, ‘All this is well but will it help you in real life? What use is it getting a certificate for English recitation or for the best handwriting? They ought to give you lessons on how to hurt those who hurt you; on how to trample upon other people’s hopes; that will help you survive and not all this. I’m not saying I’m not happy …’ he would conclude and wipe his brow with a little gesture of weary defeat they had come to recognize so well as a prelude to a headache.
    That was the other thing about Appa. His headaches. It didn’t need much to set one off. A hot day. An overcast sky. A loudspeaker that blared forth Tamil devotional songs from the next street. The fragrance of incense sticks. A stomach upset. Padma’s chatter. Narsi scraping his knee on the street. A flickering light. A clattering plate. A howling dog. A motorbike revving up outside. A bad day at work. The crowded trains. A memory of some past hurt. A disquieting letter from a relative …
    They had learnt to shelter Appa from most things that gave him a headache but in spite of it, he often had an attack. And then Appa would retire to the dark inner room and slam the door shut. A couple of hours later, he would emerge reeking of Amrutanjan balm, his eyes crinkling in the light after having being in the dark so long. Even after a headache had vanished, he would open a jar of the balm, curl his forefinger into its innards and scoop out a dollop of slick yellow salve that reeked of lemongrass oil and rub it into his temples in a long drawn out movement, filling the house with its unmistakable and completely indelible stench. Then he would rub the remnants that clung to the finger against his thumb and sniff at it. Once. Twice. And a final drawn-in breath that perhaps would carry the sting of the balm to the inside of his skull. He finished off by wiping his fingers on his nostrils.
    And now Appa would never be troubled by a headache again. He lay there completely oblivious to the noise of
strangers weeping, vehicles stopping and starting as fresh batches of people came in to condole and commiserate, the swirls of sickening sweet smoke from a whole packet of incense sticks lit and placed close to his ear … Appa was finally at peace.
    Amma lay curled up on the floor. A heap of lacerated emotions. When she saw Akhila, she rose. The women huddled by her side put their arms around her. One had to keep a close guard on a widow. Grief made even otherwise sensible people do rash and stupid things. Amma shook them off and raised her face to Akhila’s. ‘How could he do this to us? How could this happen to us?’
    Akhila looked at her helplessly. What was she to say? ‘Where are the children?’ she murmured, sitting down beside Amma.
    ‘They are somewhere around,’ she said, laying her head on Akhila’s shoulder. After a while,