The Covenant of Water

1967, Parambil

Not long after Mariamma’s departure, Baby Mol wakes from dreamless sleep and sits bolt upright, her pudgy hands clutching at the window bars. Seeing her daughter’s terrified expression, gasping for air, sweat pouring down her face, Big Ammachi raises the alarm, certain her precious baby is dying. Philipose and Anna Chedethi come running. The veins on Baby Mol’s forehead and neck bulge like rope, and bubbly froth comes out of her mouth when she tries to cough. But what is most shocking for a mother to witness is the fear on her fearless child’s face. Gradually, as Baby Mol sucks in the fresh night air, she recovers. She falls asleep on a chair by the window, propped up on pillows.

By morning, in a hired car, they’re at a government clinic an hour and a half away. If only the new hospital were already finished! The lady doctor gives Baby Mol an injection to remove fluid from her swollen legs and prescribes a daily diuretic and digitalis. She thinks Baby Mol’s stunted growth and bent spine have restricted her lungs; over time that has put a strain on her heart, and now fluid is damming up behind it.

After the visit, Baby Mol pees many times, and that night she rests comfortably. Only Big Ammachi lies awake, watching her little girl’s breathing. The household is asleep, so she converses with the one who keeps vigil with her. “We never starved, Lord, never wanted for anything. I didn’t take my blessings for granted. But there’s always something, Lord, isn’t there? Every year there’s a new worry. I’m not complaining! It’s just that I imagined there’d come a time when I wouldn’t have anything more to worry about.” She laughs. “Yes, I know it was silly to expect that. This is life, isn’t it? Just as you intended it to be. If there were no problems then I suppose I’d be in heaven, not Parambil. Well, I’ll take Parambil. The hospital coming here is all your doing—don’t think that I’m not grateful. Still, now and then, Lord, I could use some peace. A bit of heaven on earth, that’s all I’m saying.”

Baby Mol recovers, but with Mariamma gone Parambil feels off-kilter again, just as when Philipose left for Madras. It’s as though the sun rises on the wrong side of the house and the stream has reversed course. The reminders of her are everywhere: the impossibly fine needlepoint portrait of her hero, Gregor Mendel; the drawings she made of the human body, copied from her mother’s anatomy book. Philipose even misses the unmistakable vibrations he’d sense in the early morning when his daughter snuck under his window to plunge into the canal, though it always made him anxious. She thought he didn’t know. Big Ammachi sees her son reading aloud, though softly, from a novel every night, even though there is no one to read to.

Podi surprises her parents by consenting to marry, as though with Mariamma’s departure, she’s ready to leave Parambil. Joseph, her groom, is of the same caste, and works in a warehouse. Joppan came across him first and liked the boy’s confidence and ambition, reminiscent perhaps of Joppan’s youthful self. Joseph is determined to get to the Gulf and has a precious “No Objection ­Certificate”—NOC—through a broker. His first year’s salary will go to paying this off. The marriage is over before Philipose’s letter reaches Mariamma at Alwaye College. Her peevish reply asking why she wasn’t invited reminds him of his own sentiments when Joppan married.

These days, when Big Ammachi stands on the canal’s edge, she sees the future. On the other bank, instead of trees and shrubs she sees temporary sheds covering great stacks of brick, bamboo, and sand. The canal is being widened to allow for bigger barges to come by. Damo is overdue. What will he make of all this activity? She wishes he would come now for no other reason than that she misses him; there’s much to tell him.

On a Thursday evening in late February the weather is as perfect as it gets, a gentle breeze stirring the clothes on the line. Big Ammachi sits with Baby Mol on her bench, sharing with her daughter the unchanging view of the muttam. “You drink the hot jeera water, and take your medicines, then you’ll sleep well tonight.”

“Yes, Ammachi. Will I snore?”

“Like a water buffalo!” Baby Mol guffaws at this. “But I like your snores, molay. It tells me my little girl is sleeping soundly and all is well with the world.”

“All is well with the world, Ammachi,” Baby Mol repeats.

“It is, my precious. You have no worries, do you?”

“No worries, Ammachi.”

What is worry but fear of what the future holds? Baby Mol lives completely in the present and is spared all worry. Unlike her daughter, Big Ammachi, now seventy-nine, increasingly inhabits the past, reliving the memories of her years in this house. Her life before Parambil, that fleeting childhood, is like a dream that crumbles in daylight; she holds onto its edges while the middle vanishes.

This gloaming hour before they go to bed is her favorite time. Baby Mol sits sideways, while Big Ammachi unties her ribbons and combs out her thinning hair. Her daughter dangles one leg off the bench. Her adorable doll’s feet of old now stay puffy with fluid, her anklebones obscured, the overlying skin thin and shiny.

Baby Mol says, “I love weddings!”

Her mother looks for a connection with the events of the day, but she finds none. “I do too, Baby Mol. One day, our Mariamma will get married.”

“Why not marry now?”

“You know why! She’s in college. Premedical.”

“Pre-medical,” Baby Mol says, enjoying the sound of it.

“Then she’ll study to be a doctor. Like the one who helped you. After that, she can marry.”

“We’ll have a big wedding. I’ll dance!”

“You must! But wait . . . we need a good groom, don’t we? Not some silly boy who picks his nose. Not a tree stump who doesn’t move and says, ‘Bring me this, bring me that.’ ”

Baby Mol says, “No tree stump!” and guffaws so hard that she has a coughing spell. “What kind of husband do we want, Big Ammachi?”

“I don’t know. What kind do you think?”

“Well, he must be at least as tall as me,” Baby Mol says. “And as good-looking as our precious baby.” By that she means Philipose. “And he must have a good walk.” She eases off the bench effortfully, but intent on demonstrating. The walk she portrays is so reminiscent of her father’s broad stride, the feet slightly outturned, that Big Ammachi gasps.

“Aah! So a brave, fearless fellow?” Baby Mol nods, but keeps walking because there’s more to convey. “Oh, I see. A confident fellow but not too confident, is that it? He must be humble, yes?”

“And kind,” Baby Mol says. “And he must like ribbons. And beedis!”

“Chaa! If he doesn’t like ribbons, forget him. But beedis, I don’t know . . .”

“Ammachi, beedis just to look at! But no little box, no black pearls!”

Perhaps their audience has been there for some time: Philipose pokes his head out of his room, his glasses on the tip of his nose and a book in his hand; and Anna Chedethi emerges from the kitchen, her hand stifling a laugh, taking in Baby Mol’s promenading up and down, a sight so rare of late.

“Hello, hello! What’re you all looking at?” Big Ammachi scolds, shaking a finger in mock anger at the audience. “Can’t Baby Mol and I have a private moment? Did the Manorama say we’re giving out free bananas to all the monkeys?”

“No free bananas for monkeys!” Baby Mol chants, delighted. The sound is so joyful that her “precious baby,” now graying and towering over her, falls in step with her, taking up the refrain. “No free bananas for monkeys! No free bananas for monkeys!”

Big Ammachi’s heart swells with joy to see this: her Baby Mol of old, Baby Mol of the monsoon dance, her precious, precious daughter, eternally five years old. Such a gift, Lord. Thank you, thank you.

At bedtime, it takes a while to settle Baby Mol against her mountain of pillows. Her pantomime has left her breathless. Her mother massages her ankles, milking them up in the hopes the swelling will recede by morning.

Outside, the frogs announce themselves and Caesar howls at the moon. In the kitchen, Anna Chedethi lights the lamp and a moth comes to dance around it. From Philipose’s room, the radio crackles, a woman speaks but is cut off when he turns the dial to another voice. These foreigners chattering at dusk were sounds once so alien to Parambil. Now, if Big Ammachi didn’t hear these voices, something would feel amiss. The world is rapidly changing, but still the house feels just like Baby Mol: timeless.

Big Ammachi lies beside her daughter on the mat, Baby Mol’s pudgy fingers encircled around her mother’s upper arm like an amulet, a ritual of hers from the time she was a baby. Big Ammachi hums a hymn; she hears a melodious echo from Anna Chedethi, sweeping the kitchen. Baby Mol’s breathing slows.

Big Ammachi asks Baby Mol the question, the one she has asked every night for over a decade now, a question that counts on Baby Mol’s gift of prophecy. She asks it partly in jest, and always in a whisper.

“Baby Mol? Is this my night?”

For all these years, the answer has been the same. “No, Ammachi. It can’t be. Then who’d be there to take care of Baby Mol?” There hasn’t been a single night on which Baby Mol has failed to give that answer.

But tonight, Baby Mol is silent. Her eyes stay closed, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

At first, Big Ammachi thinks that she didn’t hear. “Baby Mol?”

Her daughter gives her mother’s arm a squeeze, and her smile stays the same. Baby Mol heard. But she doesn’t reply. Big Ammachi waits for a long time while Baby Mol’s breathing slows, and the encircling fingers around her mother’s arm relax. Big Ammachi kisses her daughter on her forehead.

What did I imagine? That I’d go on forever?

She feels some sorrow, just as when she was a twelve-year-old on the eve of a journey to marry an unseen widower, leaving her beloved mother and her home behind. That was the second-saddest day of her life. But on this occasion, her sorrow is mixed with some excitement.

She gently disentangles her arm. No, she doesn’t feel sad for herself, or afraid. She only worries about Baby Mol. But she knows she can count on Philipose and Anna Chedethi and even Mariamma to care for this precious child. It’s arrogance to think that only she can do it. Still, can anyone really replace a mother? Nothing more I can do, is there, Lord? If it’s my time, then let it be so. This is the moment when I can stop worrying, isn’t it? So be it.

And if so, there are two faces she must see once more. She gets to her feet.

In the kitchen, Anna Chedethi seeds the leftover milk with a fleck of that day’s yogurt, covers it with a cloth, and moves it to a cool spot. Big Ammachi scans the darkened walls. Long ago this stopped being a kitchen, becoming instead sacred space, a faithful companion that cosseted her with its warm, scented embrace. She gives it her silent thanks.

Anna has made the jeera water. Big Ammachi adds an extra dollop of honey to the hot cups, a treat for herself and her son. Standing in the kitchen for the last time, she feels a surge of love for Anna Chedethi, the angel who came when they most needed her, and who became her companion of so many years. When Anna Chedethi notices Big Ammachi still standing there, cups in hand, looking at her tenderly, her smile breaks out like the sun through heavy clouds.

“What is it?” Anna Chedethi says.

“Nothing, my dear. Just looking at you, that’s all. You were lost in thought.”

“Aah aah . . . Was I?” Anna Chedethi laughs self-consciously, such a happy musical sound. Only Big Ammachi can hear the sad undertones. Hannah’s decision to join a nunnery has dimmed the lamp of perpetual joy that lights Anna Chedethi’s face. But it has only solidified her devotion to and her affection for the family of which she is now a seamless part.

“You and your laughter have been keeping apart of late.”

“Is it prayer time?” Anna Chedethi says, embarrassed. “Were you waiting on me?”

“We already prayed, silly! Don’t you remember? You sang so sweetly.”

“Goodness! Yes, we did!” Anna Chedethi says, laughing at herself.

“I prayed for you, as I do every night. And for Hannah. Sleep well, my dear one. Sleep well. God bless you.” She doesn’t trust herself to look back to see Anna Chedethi’s response.

She pauses outside the ara. Then she peeks into the old bedroom where she gave birth and where her mother spent her last days, and where Mariamma was born—it has been Anna Chedethi’s room for years now. Her gaze sweeps lovingly over the tall velakku that she lit after Mariamma’s birth, again ensconced in its corner. The cellar below this room has been quiet for many years, the spirit there having found peace.

She sits for a moment on Baby Mol’s beloved bench, still clutching the two cups, looking up at the rafters, then out at the muttam, taking it all in for the last time, her eyes misty. Then she rises and goes to Philipose. The radio is silent and he’s busy writing at the small desk in his bedroom. He looks up and smiles, puts his pen down. She sits on the bed, where he joins her, and she hands him his cup. She doesn’t trust herself to speak as she gazes at him. She loves her son so much, loved him even during the times when he’d been so unlovable, so enslaved by opium. She’d loved Elsie too, like a daughter. How terribly the couple had suffered. She sighs. If I haven’t said what I need to say by now, it couldn’t be worth saying. She laughs, conjuring up her husband and his silences. I’m becoming more like you all the time, old man. Letting the spaces between words speak for me. I’ll see you soon.

Philipose says, “What is it, Ammachi?” reaching for his mother’s free hand and squeezing it.

“Nothing, monay,” she says, sipping on her cup. But it isn’t nothing. She’s thinking of Elsie, of the drawing Elsie left behind: a newborn and an older woman—herself. Drowning accidentally is terrible, but to drown oneself deliberately is a mortal sin. The drawing was Elsie’s way of committing Mariamma to Big Ammachi’s care. She never showed it to her son. Never shared her misgivings. He will find it in her belongings and make of it what he will.

Unlike Baby Mol, who sees things forward, she sometimes sees things only by looking back . . . but mostly the past is unreliable. She thinks of the day Elsie went into labor, much earlier than expected, and when two lives hung desperately in the balance. That day God in His infinite mercy gave her the two things she prayed for: Elsie’s life and Mariamma’s life. It could so easily have been two funerals on the same day. And then Elsie drowned.

“Forgive me,” she says now.

“For what?”

“For everything. Sometimes we can wound each other in ways we don’t intend.”

Philipose regards his mother with concern, waiting for her to explain. When she doesn’t, he says, “Ammachi. I put you through so much. And you forgave me long ago. Why would I not do the same? So, whatever it is, I forgive you.”

She rises, touches his cheek, kisses him on his forehead, letting her lips linger there for a long time. From the doorway, she turns, smiles, blinks her silent love to him, and heads for her bath.

She’s glad for the luxury of an indoor bathroom, but if it wasn’t dark outside she’d visit her bathing spot or swim in the river one last time to take her leave. She’ll miss those rituals just as she’ll miss the monsoon and the way it nourishes body and soul just as it does the land. She disrobes and pours water over her head, gasping and luxuriating in the feeling as it washes over her. Such precious, precious water, Lord, water from our own well; this water that is our covenant with You, with this soil, with the life You granted us. We are born and baptized in this water, we grow full of pride, we sin, we are broken, we suffer, but with water we are cleansed of our transgressions, we are forgiven, and we are born again, day after day till the end of our days.

Her mat takes her weight kindly, eases the ache in her back as she stretches out. She pictures Mariamma, her namesake, far away in Alwaye, studying under a lamp, her books before her. Big Ammachi sends her a blessing and a prayer. Perhaps another matriarch with advance warning of her impending departure might summon the family from near and far. What for? All my life I told them, “Keep going! Keep faith!” She kisses the sleeping Baby Mol, her eternal child, hoping that she might not suffer her mother’s absence too much. Her lips linger on her daughter just as they did on her son. Baby Mol in sleep automatically wraps her fingers around her mother’s arm again.

She says a prayer for everyone. Her children and her grandchild. Anna Chedethi, and Hannah. She asks God to bless Joppan, Ammini, and Podi. She thinks of Shamuel, of the burden stone. It’s my turn, my dear old friend. I can put my burden down, too. She prays for Lenin, the incorrigible child and future priest. She remembers Odat Kochamma, and smiles—maybe they can pray together once more in the evenings. She prays for Damo, who increasingly prefers his high forest paths and the company of other elephants. She’d have liked to see him again, lay her hand against his wrinkled hide. She saves her husband for the end. They have been apart for over four decades now, even though he, like Shamuel, is here in every particle of Parambil. When they’re together again, she’ll tell him every single thing he missed, even if it takes longer than all the years she has been alive. She’ll have an eternity to catch up.

The next morning when the sun rises, the hearth fires have burned down. Chickens scuff around outside. Caesar runs to the back of the kitchen and waits expectantly.

It is Philipose, putting down his pen to see why the house is so silent, who finds Big Ammachi and Baby Mol wrapped in each other’s arms, unmoving, their faces peaceful.

He doesn’t raise an alarm but sits cross-legged beside them, utterly still, in silent vigil. Through tears he remembers his mother’s life, what he was told of it by her and by others, and what he witnessed of her years on earth: her goodness, her strength despite her tiny size, her patience and tolerance, but especially her goodness. He recalls their conversation the previous night. What was there to forgive? You could never have done anything that wasn’t in my interest. He thinks of his loving sister, and the narrow, confined life she lived that never seemed that way to her, and how much she enriched their lives. He was her “precious baby,” never aging for her, just as she never aged. Strangers might feel sorry for Baby Mol, but if they’d understood how happy she was, how fully she lived in the present, inhabiting each second, they’d have been envious. It will take time, he knows, to begin to trace the outlines of the massive rent in his life, in the lives of everyone who knew the matriarch of Parambil and who knew Baby Mol. For now, it is too large to comprehend, and he bows his head.