The Toss of a Lemon by Padma Viswanathan Read Free Book Online Page A

father. He wishes his concerns were those of any expectant father. He wishes he were just concerned for the health of his wife and baby. Instead, he is concerned for himself—a concern that has pursued him ever since he first pursued Sivakami.
    A man must marry. A man must have children. But what if a man’s horoscope—the weakest quadrant, but nonetheless—says he will die in the ninth year of his marriage? Because of its placement, this really is not likely to happen, but it is difficult not to feel qualms. But say a son is born at an auspicious moment: the conflagration of father’s and son’s stars, the conflation of their horoscopes, could change destiny. A son has the ability, with his birth, to assure his father’s longevity. Some people think of children as a means to immortality; Hanumarathnam doesn’t want to live forever but wouldn’t mind just a few more years. Then, the boy’s birth might make no difference at all, in which case he will live with the same uncertainty as everyone else.
    With Thangam, he had no such worry, because he had a strong feeling the first would be a daughter. He was not ready for a boy, then. He was not ready to know. This time he does not know even if this child is a boy. He might be pacing and fretting for another girl.
    Nothing to do but wait.
    Hanumarathnam stomps the garden to a pulp while, within, Sivakami concentrates on the hardest thing she’s ever done.
    “Oh,” says the barber’s wife. “Hmm ... well ... don’t worry,” she mutters, as though encouraging herself.
    “What?” Sivakami pants.
    “Bum first. No matter.” She nods at Sivakami. “We’re going to have to do this fast, all right? It’s your second time at this, you know what you’re doing ...”
    Sivakami feels another contraction coming on and the barber’s wife commands, “Get it out!”
    A few moments later, Hanumarathnam hears a squalling. He throws his arms up in frustration, notes the time, goes to the window and yells, “Lemon!”
    It is hurled out the window at him, but he pays no attention. “Girl or boy?” he shouts.
    “Boy!”
    A boy. The barber’s wife finishes wiping the child and hands him to Sivakami with the suppressed satisfaction of one who has accomplished a feat much more difficult than those around her appreciate. Sivakami doesn’t even look at her as she receives her son. He’s a little skinny, and darker than his parents, though she doesn’t notice either of these qualities until her sisters-in-law point them out. The baby calms as she rocks him and starts to sing a nursery rhyme that was one of her own favourites as a child. He opens his eyes to gaze at her, his irises nearly black yet strangely brilliant, diamond sharp.

3.
    Only one, as an eye 1902
    “Onnay onnu, Kannay kannu.”
“Only one, one, as an eye, an eye.”
When there is only one, how precious is that son.
    SIVAKAMI IS AT ONCE PROUD AND COMPLACENT——complacent because she knew she would deliver a boy, and proud that she took every available measure to ensure it. When she emerges from her dive into her new baby’s eyes, she asks about Thangam. Since no good wife can say her husband’s name, everyone understands she’s asking after her husband. She expects to hear his voice responding. Instead, her youngest sister-in-law walks Thangam to the door of the birth room and tells Sivakami, obviously curious to see her reaction, “He’s gone already.”
    Sivakami feels an unjustifiable pang.
    At Thangam’s birth, Hanumarathnam had called to his wife, “I hear she’s a beauty—won’t tell a soul. I’ll return. Send word if you want anything.”
    His presence at his children’s births was highly unconventional, after all. He attended only because he trusted no one else to record their birth times and make the consequent calculations.
    Sivakami tells herself if he hadn’t said those few words to her after Thangam’s birth she wouldn’t be feeling this disappointment; she tells herself it is