Savitha said to her, “Come over tomorrow. I want to show you something.” When she did, Savitha showed her the bales of indigo thread for her sari. “It’s not completely paid for, but the collective gave me credit.” She held it against Poornima’s skin. “Like the night sky,” she said, smiling. “And you the full moon.” Poornima, too, managed a smile. She offered her tea, and when Poornima refused, Savitha turned to a corner of the hut and said, “Nanna, do you want some?”
Poornima swung around. There was an old man sitting in the corner of the room. Huddled. He’d been quiet all this time, invisible. There seemed to be movement, and Poornima thought to say, No, please don’t get up on my account, but then she saw that he was trembling. Then there came a grunt, maybe the broken half of a word, and, as if in response, Savitha poured out some tea into a steel cup. She went over to her father and cradled his head as she held the cup to his lips. He caught Poornima’s eye. He said, in a hoarse whisper, but strong, stronger than Poornima would’ve thought possible in a man who looked so weak, “You see that? You see the temple?” He was pointing out of the small window, at Indravalli Konda. “They can see us, just as we can see them. I’ve looked. I’ve stood on the steps of the temple and looked. The door of this shithole looks just as mysterious, just as inviting as that door does from here.”
“Drink,” Savitha said.
The old man—too old to be Savitha’s father; he looked more like her grandfather—said, “I did too much of that. Too much, don’t you think?”
Savitha tipped the glass. A drop of tea dribbled out. He pulled his hand out from under the blanket, instinctively, and Poornima stepped back in horror. It was a bundle of broken twigs, the fingers smooth but twisted. Savitha saw the look on Poornima’s face. “Joint disease,” she said.
“That’s not right. Not joint disease. That’s too easy. You see this here?” He raised his hand into the air and sunlight touched its very tip, like the top branches of a tree. “This is freedom. This is the human spirit, perfected. If we were all born like this there would be no war. We would live like brothers, afraid to touch each other. Do you know, Savitha, what I saw the other day? And what is your name?” When Poornima told him, he said, “Do you know there are some places in the world where people’s names have no meanings? It’s true. Can you imagine? What kind of places are they? Empty, that’s what I say. Empty and sad. A name without meaning, it’s like having night without day. There are places like that, too, I’ve heard. Now, what was I saying? Savitha, the tea’s cold,” he said, laughing. “You see. I talk too much. Far too much. Mondhoo kept me quiet. Mondhoo kept the words quiet, chained to a tree. Oh, yes! What I saw the other day. Why, now I can’t remember.” He laughed, copiously and happily, like a child.
Poornima liked him. She didn’t care what he’d meant to say, nor did she have any idea what he meant by words being chained to a tree, but she liked him because he was so unlike her own father. Unlike Ramayya, unlike any man she’d ever met. She forgot, then, and for the entire walk home, that she was dark, that she was unmarriageable, that there was not enough money for her dowry, that there was a poverty even greater than her own.
*
Ramayya was jubilant when he came over the following week. He nearly danced through the door. It was the beginning of May. The wells were dry. The streams were choked with dust. The level of the Krishna was so low that laundresses from either shore walked to the middle of the river to share gossip. After two weeks, and after a few children had died of dysentery, the municipal government brought in water in massive tanks. Lines formed around the tanks—sometimes a hundred, two hundred people long. People watched the sky for the slightest hint of a cloud. Even a thin one, the most trivial strip, would have them holding their breath, waiting for rain. Everyone knew the monsoons wouldn’t come until June or July, but someone had heard of a bit of rainfall in Vizag, just enough to fill the streams. Maybe it would come down the coast.
But Ramayya seemed unconcerned. “Poornima,” he yelled out as soon as he was within earshot, “bring me a glass of water, would you? My throat is parched. And for my feet. Enough to wash my feet. Look at all this dust. I practically ran here.”
Water? Poornima wondered. She looked into each of the empty clay water pots and scraped the bottom of one to fill a small glass. When she took it to him, he was already engrossed in conversation with her father. “He’s perfect. I haven’t talked to the family yet, but he’s perfect.”
“Who’s perfect?” Poornima asked.
“Who do you think? Go do something. Go find something to do.”
Poornima walked back into the hut and stood just inside the door.
“Would you believe it? I didn’t even have to go very far. Just to Namburu. The boy’s grandparents were weavers. Did well, it seems. Bought up a sizable chunk of land around Namburu. They were farmers, before independence, but now they’ve sold most of it. Made plenty, too. He has two younger sisters. They’re looking for matches for the older one, our Poornima’s age, but seems she’s a bit picky. Well, they can afford it.”
Poornima heard her father say, “What does the boy do?”
“An accountant!” Ramayya said jubilantly. “He studied. There’s no money in weaving. You know that. None at all.”
“How much do they want?”
“That’s just it—they’re within our range. Well, almost. But I’ve heard we might be able to talk them down.”
“Talk them down?”
Here, Poornima heard shuffling. When Ramayya finally spoke, his voice was lowered. “There’s nothing wrong with him. Nothing like that.” More shuffling, a further drop.
“But what is it?” Poornima’s father’s voice rose with suspicion.
“Our girl’s no catch, you know. So no need to be so dubious. Just a small affectation. An idiosyncrasy. Nothing to worry about. That’s just what I heard, mind you, and really, who knows.”
*
Savitha squealed with delight. She took Poornima in her arms. “So you’re getting married! And he lives in Namburu. That’s not far at all. It’s right here. I could walk there.”
“Yes,” Poornima said. “Maybe.” Then she was silent. Then she asked, “What does idiosyncrasy mean?”
*
Poornima stood outside her hut and looked at the palm trees. They caught the breeze, a slight one, just enough to rustle the topmost fronds. The other plants that surrounded the hut—a neem tree, a struggling guava, a vine of winter squash—all looked exhausted. They drooped. They sulked hopelessly in the heat. There had been no rain—it was absurd to think there would be. It was only mid-May. The temperature hovered somewhere near thirty-nine degrees Celsius in the mornings, rising to forty-one or forty-two in the afternoons. Shade—that elusive place—was without meaning. The hut broiled like it was set on a frying pan.
Information, as Ramayya learned of it, trickled in. He’d talked to the parents and they had said their son would not be ready to marry for another two months; exams, they’d said. The timing was perfect. That would be just after Poornima’s mother’s one-year death ceremony. The son’s name was Kishore. He was twenty-two years old. “I haven’t met him yet,” Ramayya said, “but there’s no condition that they mentioned. He seemed perfectly fine. College. An accountant. What else could our Poornima possibly hope for?”
“Do they want to see the girl? They must. Don’t they?” Poornima’s father asked.
“Of course. Of course,” Ramayya assured him. “No telling when the boy will be able to come, though. Like I said, exams.”
“And the dowry?”
“Settled.”
It was decided that they—the parents, at least—would come at the end of May. If the visit went smoothly, there would be a full month to plan the wedding, and then, at the end of June, would be the ceremony. June! “But it’s so soon,” Poornima said.
Savitha was already busy with plans. “Exactly. That’s just it. I hardly have time to finish all the saris. And I still have to make yours. What do you think of a red border? I think red would be nice with the indigo. I can hardly wait! You. Married. Do you mind if I spend the night sometimes? That would make things easier. I could stay at the loom as long as I wanted.”