1 TOGETHERNESS Talking to you was always easy, Rukku. But writing''s hard. "Write her a letter," Celina Aunty said, laying a sheet of paper on the desk. Paper remade from wilted, dirty, hopeless litter that had been rescued, scrubbed clean, and reshaped. Even the pencil she gave me was made from scraps. "You really like saving things, don''t you?" I said. Crinkly lines softened her stern face. "I don''t like giving up," she said.
She rested her dark hand, warm and heavy, on my shoulder. "Why should I write?" I said. "It''s not like you have her address." "I believe your words will reach her," Celina Aunty said. "We''re opposites," I said. "You believe in everything and everybody. You''re full of faith." "Yes," she said.
"But you''re full, too. You''re full of feelings you won''t share and thoughts you won''t voice." She''s right about that. I don''t talk to anyone here any more than I have to. The only person I want to talk to is you, Rukku. Maybe writing to you is the next best thing. If you could read my words, what would you want me to tell you? I suppose you''d like to hear the fairy tale you''d make me tell every night we huddled together on the ruined bridge. The story that began with Once upon a time, two sisters ruled a magical land, and ended with Viji and Rukku, always together.
That story was made up, of course. Not that you''d care whether it was true or not. For you, things were real that the rest of us couldn''t see or hear. When I finished the story, you''d say, "Viji and Rukku together?" "Always." I was confident. Our togetherness was one of the few things I had faith in. 2 ROTTEN FRUIT You always felt like a younger sister, Rukku. You looked younger, too, with your wide eyes and snub nose.
You spoke haltingly, and you hunched your shoulders, which made you seem smaller than me, though you were born a year before. Born when our father was a nice man, I suppose, because Amma said he was nice. Before. Imagining Appa "before" took a lot of imagining. I was a good imaginer, but even so, I couldn''t imagine him all the way nice. The best I could do was think of him as a not-yet-all-the-way-rotten fruit. A plump yellow mango with just a few ugly bruises. I could imagine our mother picking him out, the way she''d pick fruit from the grocer''s stall, choosing the overripe fruit he was happy to give her for free.
I could see Amma looking Appa over, hoping that if certain foul bits could be cut away, then sweetness, pure sweetness, would be left behind. Because Amma did choose him. Their marriage wasn''t arranged. Somehow he charmed her, charmed her away from her family, with whom she lost all touch. They were ashamed, she told me, ashamed and angry with her for eloping with someone from an even lower caste than the one she''d been born into. It was all she ever said about her family. Not their names or where they lived or how many brothers and sisters she had. Only that they wanted nothing to do with us.
And Appa''s family--if he had one--didn''t seem to know we existed either. Sometimes I wonder if they might have helped us if they''d known. But maybe they''d have done nothing, or acted like our neighbors and schoolmates, who did worse than nothing. Who sniggered or made rude comments when we walked past. Comments that upset you so much you stooped even lower than usual, so low it looked like you wanted to hide your head inside your chest. On my eleventh birthday, when we came home from school, I was surprised to see saucepans full of food simmering on the stove. "Amma, you cooked!" I loved evenings when Amma felt strong enough to prepare dinner for us, instead of the other way around. "You even made payasam?" I inhaled the sweet scent of milk rice that wafted through our apartment.
"Not just that." Amma dug out a small money pouch from its hiding place, underneath the rice sack. "Here''s two hundred rupees, for you to buy something for yourself." "Two hundred rupees!" I was so astonished that I almost dropped the pouch before securing it to my ankle-length skirt. "I''ve been saving a little of what Appa gives me for food and rent. I wanted to buy something, but I was too tired to go shopping for a gift, and I wasn''t sure what you''d like." "This is the best gift, Amma. Thanks.
" "Sweet?" you said. "Sweets for Rukku?" "Proper food first," Amma said. "For you both." Amma heaped rice onto our plates and ladled some hot, spicy rasam over the top. She started eating, but you just stared at your food, your hands crossed over your chest. "Come on, Rukku." I rolled a mouthful of rice and rasam into a ball and tried to feed you. "No!" you yelled.
"Sweet! Sweeeeet!" "Don''t get angry, Rukku. Please? Eat and I''ll tell you a story tonight." "Story?" You calmed down. Amma looked at me gratefully. We''d just finished our dinner when we heard Appa''s heavy footsteps. The sound of him staggering up the stairs to our apartment told us all we needed to know. "Get in your room. Quick," Amma said.
"Sweet," you moaned, but your hand met mine and we crept into our bedroom. In the darkness, we huddled together, unable to block out the sound of Appa yelling at Amma. We rocked back and forth, taking comfort in each other''s warmth. Appa broke Amma''s arm that night, before storming out of the house. "I need to see a doctor," Amma came and told us. Her voice was tight with pain. "Stay with Rukku. If they see her--" She didn''t finish her sentence.
She didn''t need to. She''d told me a million times how scared she was that if you set foot in a hospital, the doctors might lock you away in "a mental institution." You curled up on our mattress with your wooden doll, Marapachi. I smoothed your brow. The patch of moonlight that slipped past the rusty iron bars on our window fell on the book that our teacher, Parvathi, had given me before she moved away. No other teacher had ever been so nice, even though I was often at the top of the class. I opened the book. In a shaking voice, I read you a tale about a poor, low-caste girl who''d refused to accept the life others thought she should lead.
"You think we could change our lives, like that girl did?" I said. "And Parvathi Teacher. And Subbu. Or at least his family. They all left for a better life in a big city." Subbu had been the only friend we''d had in school. His long face and thin frame had made him look as weak as a blade of grass, but he''d always told off the other children who teased us. "I miss him, Rukku.
Think he ever misses us?" You answered me with a snore. I was glad you''d fallen asleep, but I stayed awake, worrying and hoping. I hoped Amma would finally tell someone about how she had been hurt, and that they''d swoop down and rescue us. But I should have known she''d never tell. 3 BREAKING The next day, Amma pretended like nothing had happened. You never pretended. "Owwa," you announced. You patted our mother''s good arm and stroked the sling on the broken one.
When Appa came home that evening, his eyes bloodshot and his breath reeking as usual, he set packages wrapped in newspaper on the cracked kitchen counter. "Presents for my girls." "How nice!" Amma''s voice was full of false cheer. "Sorry I lost my temper last night." He placed a finger on her chin. "I''ll never do it again. Promise." I saw hope creep into Amma''s eyes.
Desperate, useless hope. Suddenly, I wanted to shout at her, more than at him. Have you forgotten how often he''s broken his promises? He ripped open one of the packages and dangled a pair of bangles in front of you. But before your fingers could close over them, he jerked them away. "Catch!" He launched one bangle over your head, and as you slowly raised your hands to try to catch it, he sent the other flying so fast it struck you before tinkling to the floor. You squeaked like a trapped mouse. He laughed. How dare he think it was funny to trick you.
How dare he mock your trust. When he tossed a package in my direction, I didn''t even try to catch it. I crossed my arms and watched it land on the floor. "How bad both our girls are at catching!" Amma''s voice was high-pitched and tense as a taut string.