The Hero's Walk by Anita Rau Badami Read Free Book Online

unable to move. He stared at his hands, knotted with the weight of the years they had carried; the paper cut on his left hand, just below the thumb, which began to burn the moment he noticed it; and the three black moles on his palm, which he had believed for years would bring him untold wealth. These were the hands that had cradled a small body, stroked unruly curls off a sweaty forehead, swung a little girl—his first born—in the air above his head. The same hands that had written such hard, unforgiving words nine years ago. He glanced down at them, empty now, their palms seared by lines of time and fate.
    In a daze he heard Nirmala climb the stairs.
    â€œWhat is wrong? Why haven’t you started filling water in the kitchen? Who was that on the phone? What happened?” she asked. Sripathi could feel her anxious gaze, even though he couldn’t look her in the face.
    â€œRee-ree, why are you sitting like this without saying anything? Are you ill, or what? Tell me.”
    Sripathi felt her hand on his shoulder. Felt her shake him and, when he did not respond, yell for their son. “Arun, come quickly! Something is wrong with your father! I don’t know what. Must be that oily food he keeps eating at the office. How many times I have said, after a certain age you must be careful of your diet, otherwise all sorts of heart problems you will get.”
    She shook him again, and this time Sripathi looked at her, afraid of what he would see in her eyes after she heard what he had to say.
    â€œOur Maya,” he said. His voice came out in a croak, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Bad news. That was a call from Vancouver.” He frowned. Had that call really come?
    â€œWhat? What happened? Is she sick? Tell me no, why you are keeping things from me?” begged Nirmala.
    â€œMaya is dead,” said Sripathi. He heard his own voice again, and now it seemed to be coming from somewhere else. “So is her husband. Car crash.” Again that clutch of panic in his chest—a sticky, dark tightness that caught his breath and refused to release it in the waves of grief that he craved.
    Nirmala stared at him. “What are you saying? Who was on the phone? Some idiot playing the fool probably. You know how the phone idiots climb on the poles—”
    â€œDidn’t you hear me? Maya and her husband died yesterday in a car crash. Why are you babbling about phones and all? Is something wrong with your ears?” Sripathi asked savagely, willing himself to feel something other than numbness, to feel a rightful sorrow. He glared at Nirmala, hating her for making him repeat the awful news. Repeating it would make it real. Didn’t the silly woman realize that?
    Without any warning, Nirmala launched herself at him. She hit him on his chest and wailed in his face, “Your fault, your fault, your fault! You killed my daughter. You drove her away from me! You! You! You!”
    Again and again she hammered her fists against his body, slapping and punching in a frenzy. Sripathi sat still, his head in his hands, like a penitent being flogged for his sins. For once he had no argument, no quick sarcastic remark to shut her up. He wanted to apologize, to say something, but perversely he found himself becoming angry with her. How dare she raise her hands to him, her husband?
    â€œStop it!” He tried to grab her flailing arms. “Stop making such a scene. Behave yourself!”
    Nirmala’s heavy, normally pleasant face was ugly. Her hair had worked free of its pins and fell across her face and down her back. “I am
tired
of behaving myself,” she panted. Sripathi noticed with faint disgust that mucus had dripped from her nose and was smeared across her left cheek. One of her hands landed hard on hisface, knocked his glasses away, caught his eye and made it water. Without thinking he slapped her back, and she stopped crying abruptly.
    â€œYou
hit
me?” she