The Covenant of Water

1971, Mahabalipuram

Lenin soon falls asleep, as though by unburdening himself of these horrible events he has found a temporary respite. But Mariamma cannot do the same.

She looks out and sees stars. How many light-years did those pinpricks on the dark firmament travel to get to her retinae? Lenin used to know such things. The ocean is invisible, but she hears its surf as it lathers over this stretch of Coromandel Coast. The Bay of Bengal extends east from here for hundreds of miles before embracing the Andaman Islands, and then eventually the coast of Burma. If only the immensity of these elements—sky, stars, and sea—could erase the enormity of what Lenin has told her. She’s saddled with knowledge that weighs heavily on her.

Lenin looks to be at peace. Big Ammachi used to marvel that a boy who was such a terror when awake could look so innocent asleep. He still does. When he had described the constables marching Arikkad out from the house and passing under the tree where he sat hidden, Mariamma had shivered uncontrollably. After Raghu’s death, the failure of the raids, Lenin said he’d questioned what an armed struggle could accomplish unless all the oppressed villagers in India rose en masse. He’d barely joined the Naxalites and he was having misgivings. But witnessing Arikkad’s execution, he knew he had to fight on, no matter what happened. An armed struggle needed arms, better training, to be effective, he said. He’d let slip earlier that his next stop was Vizag. Her guess is that Lenin’s trip is to address these very deficiencies.

She’s exhausted. She turns away from the window and stretches out beside him. The night is turning cool. She pulls the flimsy sheet over them. His body is warm. He’s breathing right beside her, but she feels she’s already mourning him. Lenin can never visit Parambil again, never attend a wedding, never write her a letter. Even this impulsive visit of his puts them both at risk. But she’s glad he came. If she’s never to see him again, at least she has some idea of what he’s doing. That’s better than having no news of him. The police aren’t hunting him yet, or so he thinks. But from now on he’ll be on the run. He will likely die or be captured while still young.

Lenin turns over in his slumber, drapes his arm over her. It’s enough to spark fresh tears. She cries herself to sleep.

Well before dawn, she awakes. She watches the rise and fall of his chest, his belly moving out as hers retracts. Her thoughts feel crisp, like a cool gust after a sudden rain squall. She knows that she loves Lenin. Perhaps she always has. As children they fought and baited each other . . . and that was love. Recently, their mannered letters bared their souls—that, too, was love. “Love” isn’t a word she had given herself permission to think, let alone use, because they’re fourth or fifth cousins. The Condition didn’t need firmer footing. But genetics now feels like a religion in which she has lost faith.

Lenin opens his eyes. For a second, the world is at bay and the word “Naxalite” lives in other rooms with other people. It’s just the two of them. He smiles. Then reality intrudes.

He used to tease her by saying her eyes were devious, like a cat’s. And that her piebald streak was evidence of her feline origins. Perhaps her eyes this morning reveal all the emotions that she’s too shy to articulate. The hand that was draped over her now strokes her cheeks. She feels his beard, touches his scar. He draws closer. Why hold back now when she’ll never see him again? She kisses, for the first time ever; kisses the man she loves. They retreat after the shock of it. The joy, the surprise on his face mirror her feelings. If she had doubts, she doesn’t any longer. He loves her too. There’s no holding back.

They fall asleep in each other’s arms, legs intertwined, and their bodies covered with sweat. They only surface when sunlight chases the shadows out of the room and it gets hot. The world outside intrudes. But they don’t move.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she says. “Why can’t it be just like this forever?” Her breasts are pressed against his ribs. She grabs a fistful of his chest hair (what other biological purpose does it serve but as a handhold?) and tugs till he winces. “What am I supposed to do now, Lenin? How do I live in a world without you? Never getting to set eyes on you. Wondering if I ever will. Wondering if you’re alive. I can’t even write to you!” She’s fighting back tears.

“Oh, Mariamma,” he says. His pitying tone annoys her; she wasn’t asking for pity. She was mourning him. She bites her tongue. He doesn’t notice. He goes on: “Mariamma. Marry me! Come away with me. How else are we to be together? If you join the movement, we can have a life together. Be husband and wife.”

She digests this. Then she shoves him away, her hands scrabbling for the sheet. She feels very naked. “Listen to you!” she hisses. “Do you hear yourself? Your arrogance? You want me to give up my life? Follow you to a cave? Do you know why I shivered to hear your story? Shivered when the constables passed under the tree? I was terrified that the next thing you would say was that you killed Sivaraman because you felt it was justified. If you had had your gun, you would have, wouldn’t you?”

“Mariamma—”

“Stop! Don’t say a word. I’ve given everything—my strength, my sleep, my every waking hour—to study the body. To heal, not to harm, Lenin, you understand? Maybe even one day to cure the Condition. Big Ammachi prayed for that every single day. To fix you, you idiot! Do you know why I just gave you my body? Because I know I’m never going to see you again. But, my God, if you really thought I’d go down this path of bloodshed with you, this . . . this stupid path you took, not a straight path at all. If you think that, then you don’t know me at all.”

He rolls onto his back, chastened.

She’s not done. She shakes him by the shoulder. “How come I didn’t hear you say you’d give up your fight and come live a normal life with me, sacrifice your dreams for me? For the love we have . . .”

He stares at her, his face a mask of pain. “It’s too late,” he says at last. “If I’d known how you felt for me, I might never have gone down this path.”

“You’re a macku for not knowing. And let me tell you, there’s nothing heroic about what you’re doing. You want to help the downtrodden? Be a social worker! Or go into politics. Join your bloody Party and run for office. No, you’re still standing on rooftops waiting for a lightning bolt, playing Mandrake the Magician. Grow up! You’re no better than your father.” It’s vicious and she knows it. She’s gone too far.

Outside they hear laughter, a woman’s high-pitched voice, and a boy answering her. The sound of a tractor or diesel truck. How much Mariamma would give for ordinary! Ordinary would be precious. Ordinary would be extraordinary with Lenin. Anyone who disapproved of them could sit with their disapproval and make curry of it.

She brushes away tears. “Forgive me,” she says.

“You’re right. It was stupid of me to suggest you risk your life for something that isn’t yours. And the reward is . . . There is no reward.”

“My reward should have been you, Lenin. But not a Lenin in hiding. Or in prison.”

“Forgive me,” he says softly.

She nods. She must. She has. Forgiveness is hollow, but it’s all she can offer the man she loves.