Family Life by Akhil Sharma Read Free Book Online

breath and tried to think of other things—a television program, a book—but this wasn’t always enough. My teacher would send me out into the schoolyard so that I didn’t disturb the class.
    The schoolyard had a swing set for little children and a slide. Otherwise, there was only a grassy field surrounded by a chain-link fence. I was embarrassed to be sent out. I felt foolish for behaving immaturely. I would walk along the fence and frequently I cried so hard that I lost my breath. When this happened, I became detached from myself. I walked and gasped and, as I did, I could feel my unhappiness walking beside me, waiting for my breath to return so that it could climb back inside me.
    T HE MOST IMPORTANT thing was to appeal to God. Each morning, my mother and I prayed before the altar. To me the altar was like a microphone—whatever we said in front of it would be broadcast directly to God. When I did my prayers, I traced an om, a crucifix, a Star of David onto the carpet by pressing against the pile. Beneath these I drew an S inside an upside-down triangle, for Superman. It seemed to me we should flatter anyone who could help.
    One morning, I was doing my prayers before the altar when my mother came up to me. “What are you praying for?” she asked. She had her hat on, a thick gray knitted cap that had belonged to my uncle. The tracings on the carpet went against the weave and were darker than the surrounding nap. Pretending to examine them, I put my hand over the S . My mother did not mind the crucifix or the Star of David, but I knew she would be angry to catch me praying to a superhero, and in my nervousness I spoke the truth, “That God give me hundred percent on the math test.”
    My mother was silent for a moment. “What if God says you can have the math grade but Birju would have to be sick a little while longer?”
    I looked at the altar. Kali Ma danced on a postcard, sticking out her tongue and waving her many swords and daggers. I knew my mother wanted to be angry. I saw that she wanted to complain. I thought of Birju in his hospital bed. I thought of how proud he used to be of dressing properly, tucking in his shirt so that it was snug around his waist, lacing and unlacing his shoes until the loops were as even as dragonfly wings, and of how nowadays he got rashes on his penis from the urinary catheter. I thought of these things, and it seemed OK that my mother should complain before the altar, where God was likely to hear and would take pity.
    “Are you going to tell me about Kusum mausiji again?”
    “Why not? When I was in tenth standard and your aunt was sick, I walked seven times around the temple and said, ‘God, let me fail as long as you make Kusum better.’”
    “If I failed the math test and told you that story, you’d slap me and say, ‘What does one have to do with the other?’”
    My mother turned toward the altar. “What sort of sons did you give me? One you nearly drown and the other is this fool.”
    I made my face earnest and looked at the altar so that God could see my sweetness. “I will fast today so that God puts some sense into me.”
    “No,” my mother said. “You are a growing boy. Fasting is good for me. I gain blessings and lose weight at the same time.”
    I N THE MORNINGS I prayed, and at night, when I was supposed to be sleeping but couldn’t, I spoke with God. One rainy night, the room was gray with light from the street and my mother was lying nearby, her breath whistling. I was on my strip of foam and I asked God whether he minded being prayed to only in need. “You think of your toe only when you stub it,” he said.
    “Still, it’s better to pray just to pray.”
    “It’s human nature. I don’t mind it.” God looked like Clark Kent. He was wearing a gray cardigan and slacks. He sat cross-legged at the foot of the mat. Originally, right after the accident when I had first started talking to him, God had looked like Krishna. But it had felt foolish to