Ode to Broken Things by Dipika Mukherjee Read Free Book Online Page B

instinctive, idiosyncratic movement that had plagued him since childhood, Jay felt his forefinger tracing agitated circles in the air with a life of its own. He had to will himself to concentrate, to click his pen with great deliberation. “No. I wasn’t there.”
    Agni was looking at him quizzically, her head cocked to one side. “Tell me, Professor, what brings you back to Malaysia after thirty years?”
    He frowned at her naivety, at the assumption of his truthfulness. When he had called her earlier from his hotel, explaining hurriedly that he was already there, this old friend of Shanti’s, she had immediately welcomed him into her home. She was shaped by all that mumbo-jumbo which he too had once believed: goodness, friendship, loyalty… the munificence of the human being and community ties. He wanted to tell her so much, yet he had only just met her. Some things were too brutal to blurt out; he, of all people, should have learnt that by now.
    He could begin by saying, a dead woman brought me here, but the conceit was appalling. She was right about memories being remade in their retelling. It was as if Shanti had been a goddess, with twenty magnificently arrayed arms, and each person remembered her holding out only what they wanted. Did Shanti’s daughter need the saviour or the nemesis?
    The silence grew uncomfortable. Then there was a slight noise of a door opening. Agni sprang to her feet with a smile. “I think I hear the nurse. My grandmother should have been up a long time ago. Please sit, I’ll check on her and come back… Then you can come in and say hello.”

Ten
    Jay watched Agni disappear into a long corridor sectioned off by souvenirs from all around the world. Grinning masks from Cancun and Nigeria were placed next to a preserved yellow piranha, teeth bared in death. He couldn’t see much further into the gloom.
    This was an old colonial building with high ceilings and cool mosaic floors, but the ventilation slats in the upper walls had been sealed to allow for air conditioning. He felt the soft darkness envelop him as he leaned forward into his palms, closing his eyes.
    “Professor Ghosh? Are you okay?”
    Agni was standing in front of him, concern creasing her brow.
    He lifted his head and shook it sharply. “A bit of jet-lag. I should leave soon.”
    She looked at her watch. “I have to go to work in a while. If you want, we can talk to my grandmother for a bit, and I can drop you off at your hotel? It would be easier than calling a taxi, especially with the protests.”
    “Thank you, that’s very kind. You work on Sundays in Malaysia?”
    She laughed easily. “Not usually! There’s a bit of a problem at the airport,” she responded to his raised eyebrows, “but it’s nothing serious. I need to go and check on the security system.”
    He wanted to ask about her work, but they had stopped in front of a darkened bedroom.
    “Dida?” Agni murmured into the darkness, “O Dida?”
    The blinds were drawn, the glass window slats clicked shut. The shifting rays of the late afternoon sun seeped in through the doily designs near the ceiling, falling on an empty wheelchair.
    “Dida?” Agni called again.
    “Let her sleep.”
    “She’s awake.” Agni leaned towards the huddle of cloth on the bed. “Dida,” she said in Bengali, “Someone is here to see you.”
    Agni guided Jay to the chair near Shapna’s head. The spindly legs on the old kopitiam chair were spread at awkward angles and he lowered himself hesitantly. Agni sank into a faded blue peacock on the bedspread.
    A smell of eucalyptus oil and stale spit wafted up as Shapna turned towards him. “ Ke ?” she slurred.
    “Professor Jayanta Ghosh,” said Agni, adding in Bengali, “Ila’s son? You know him, from long ago.”
    Jay had known that Shapna would recognise him, but the force of her recognition was startling. Her eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a wounded bird before she tightened them shut.
    Agni let out a light