Chapter 6: Reyansh

# Chapter 6: Reyansh

## The Nightmare

The nightmare comes at 3 AM.

I know it is 3 AM because when I wake, when I jolt awake, the jolting: body's emergency response, the response that the body produces when the mind screams danger and the mind is wrong because the danger is not real, the danger is the dream, the dream that is over. When I jolt awake, I grab my phone and the screen says 3:07 AM and the 3:07 being the hour that nightmares choose: the hour between deep sleep and dawn, the hour that the brain uses to process the things that the waking mind refuses to process.

The nightmare is this:

I am in Baba's kitchen. The kitchen in Saraswati Apartments; not Mausaji's Saraswati Niwas in Nagpur but my family's Saraswati Apartments in Pune, the Pune that I left six months ago, the Pune that holds Shlok, the Pune that holds the memory of: Baba standing at the gas stove making poha on Sunday mornings, the poha that Baba made with the precision of a man who had made poha every Sunday for twenty years, the precision that included: exactly three green chillies, exactly one teaspoon of turmeric, exactly half a lemon squeezed at the end, the exactness, which was Baba's personality in edible form.

In the nightmare, I am standing in the kitchen. The kitchen looks the same, the same utensils, the same Prestige pressure cooker, the same gas stove with the one broken burner that Baba never fixed because the not-fixing was Baba's relationship with home repairs: "Kal karunga", I'll do it tomorrow, the tomorrow that never came.

On the counter: two plates of poha. Cold. Untouched. The poha that I know, in the dream-knowledge that dreams provide, was the last poha that Baba made. The poha that nobody ate because the eating requires alive people and the alive people were becoming dead people and the dead people do not eat poha. Dry. Past its freshness.

Beside the poha: a cup of chai. Half-drunk. The chai that Aai was drinking when, when —

I look out the window. Through the kitchen window that faces the small balcony. And through the balcony, I see them.

Two mounds. On the balcony floor. Two mounds of earth: the earth that I carried in buckets from the building's garden, the earth that I packed over the bodies, the bodies that I wrapped in bedsheets (Aai's bedsheet, the white cotton bedsheet with the blue flowers, the bedsheet that she bought at the Pune Festival sale, the bedsheet that was her favorite) and that I buried on the balcony because the cremation grounds were full and the full meant: no cremation, no antim sanskar, no fire, no Ganga, no ash, just: earth on a balcony in a flat in Pune.

The mounds. In the dream, I stare at the mounds. And the staring produces the tears. The tears that fall on the kitchen floor, the floor that Aai mopped every morning at 6 AM because the mopping was the routine and the routine was the life. I shielded it with my palm.

And then, movement. From the mounds. A hand, a hand pushing through the earth, the earth parting like water, the hand emerging: pale, dirt-caked, the fingers reaching, grasping:

I try to scream. The scream does not come. The voice that the nightmare steals, the voice that the dream locks in the throat, the throat that constricts, the constriction that is the nightmare's cruelty: you see this and you cannot scream and the not-screaming is the punishment.

The hand. Baba's hand. I know it is Baba's hand because the hand wears the ring, the gold ring that Baba wore on his right hand, the ring that Aai gave him on their wedding day, the ring that —

I wake up. The waking, the escape. The escape from the balcony, from the hand, from the mounds, from the kitchen that smells of cold poha and half-drunk chai.

I am in Wardha. In the house we found. On the Godrej mattress. The ceiling fan above me. The Crompton Greaves that is not rotating because the electricity is dead.

I am panting. The panting that the body produces when the body has been in the nightmare and the body is catching up with the mind's awareness: it was a dream. It was only a dream. The hand was not real. The mounds are, the mounds are real, but the hand was not.

The mounds are real. The mounds on the balcony in Saraswati Apartments in Pune. I buried my parents on a balcony. I buried them with earth from the garden. I buried them because there was no one to help and no cremation ground and no priest and no fire and the burying was the only option.

The memory. The memory that the waking mind has been suppressing and that the nightmare releases: the weight of the earth in the bucket. The weight of Baba's body when I lifted him (Baba who was 80 kilos and I am 60 kilos and the 80-minus-60 was the deficit that my arms and back and legs had to compensate for, the compensating — the most physically painful thing I have ever done). Military canvas, coarse-woven.

I sit up. The sitting-up producing the shiver: not cold-shiver but fear-shiver, the fear that the nightmare leaves behind like residue, the residue that coats the body and that the body shakes to remove but that the shaking does not remove because the residue is not on the body but in the mind.

"Tu kuch kar sakta tha. Kuch bhi. Tu hume bacha sakta tha."

You could have done something. Anything. You could have saved us.

The words from the nightmare. Baba's voice — Baba's voice speaking through the decomposing mouth, the mouth that the nightmare created, the mouth that I did not see in reality because I wrapped the bodies without looking at the faces, the not-looking being the survival mechanism: do not look at the face. If you look at the face, you will not be able to do what you need to do. And what you need to do is: bury.

Could I have done more? Could I have saved them? The questions that the nightmare asks and that the waking mind cannot answer and that the cannot-answering is the guilt: you survived and they did not. You are alive and they are dead. The alive-and-dead is the equation that has no solution.

I check my phone. 3:07 AM. No messages from Shlok.

I look at the wall that divides my room from Janhavi's room. I wonder if she is awake. I picture her: lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, thinking about, what? Her real parents? The thing that she does not talk about? The thing that makes her hands shake and her breath catch?

For a second, I consider getting up. Knocking on her door. Talking. Telling her about the nightmare. About the mounds on the balcony. About the hand.

But I don't. I lie back down. And I pray. Not to God, because I do not know if God is the thing that the new world permits (does God exist in a world where God killed 1.4 billion people? The question that the nightmare asks and that the waking mind does not answer); I pray to the ceiling, to the fan, to the Kalnirnay calendar, to whatever listens: let me sleep without the mounds. Let me sleep without the hand. Let me sleep.

---

His palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans.

Morning comes too quickly. The morning —: heat. The Vidarbha heat that enters the room through the jali window like an uninvited guest, the guest that does not knock, does not ask permission, simply enters and occupies, the occupying — the Vidarbha sun's personality: *I am here. You did not invite me.

I force my eyes open. The forcing: the effort that the nightmare's residue produces: the eyes want to stay closed, the closed: the protection, the protection: if I keep my eyes closed, the day does not begin and the walking does not begin and the 660 kilometres do not begin.

But the walking must begin. Shlok is in Pune. Pune is south. South is through Wardha and Amravati and Aurangabad and the walking is the only way.

I get up. Dress. Walk to Janhavi's room.

Her door is open. Wide open. The bed is empty. The mattress has the impression of her body — the impression that a body leaves when the body has slept and the sleeping has compressed the mattress and the compression is the evidence: she was here. She slept. She is gone.

Panic. The panic that arrives instantly, the instantly, which was speed of fear, the fear that says: *she left. She left in the night. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

I run downstairs. The running producing the sound that the empty house amplifies — the footsteps on the mosaic floor, the echo that the empty rooms produce.

She is not in the living room. She is not on the aangan: the courtyard with the dying tulsi.

She is gone. She has left me. The leaving: the thing that foster children know how to do, the leaving that Janhavi has done her whole life: leaving foster families, leaving schools, leaving the gang in Amravati, leaving. The leaving, which was the skill.

"Surprise!"

The voice comes from the kitchen. I spin: the spinning: too fast, the too-fast that makes me stumble, the stumbling that is the body's response to the reversal: *not gone. Not gone.

Janhavi stands at the kitchen door. Two steel thalis in her hands. On each thali: eggs (scrambled: the scrambling; better than last night, the better that was improvement that practice produces), poha (the poha that she found in the kitchen's dabba. The dabba being the steel container that Indian kitchens used for dry ingredients, the dabba being the storage that the previous family had filled and that Janhavi has emptied into two thalis), and chai.

Chai. She made chai. The chai that requires: tea leaves (found in the dabba), sugar (found in the dabba), milk, the milk (problem that she solved by using the powd e)red milk that the kirana store had stocked and that she had apparently taken while I was not looking, the not-looking being: she planned this. She planned the chai. She planned the surprise.

"Janhavi. Tu kya kar rahi thi?"

"Matlab kya?" Her face tightening, the tightening of a person who expected a different reaction and who got fear instead. "Kitchen mein thi. Tera: tere liye kuch banaya. Shukriya bolne ke liye, saath le liya tune."

I was in the kitchen. Made something — for you. To say thanks, for taking me along.

I don't know what to say. The not-knowing being: the relief. The relief that she is here. The relief that she did not leave. The relief that the kitchen has chai and the chai means: another day. Another person. Another heartbeat.

"Chal, kha le. Chai thand ho jayegi."

Come, eat. The tea will get cold.

We eat on the floor. Cross-legged. Steel thalis. The poha is: the poha is better than it has any right to be. The poha that Janhavi made with turmeric and green chillies and peanuts (the peanuts (critical ingredient that B)aba always insisted on: "Poha bina dani ka nahi hota". Poha without peanuts isn't poha) and that the making is the evidence: she has been watching. Watching how I eat, what I eat, what I mention. She heard me talk about Baba's poha. She made poha.

"Achha hai," I say. The sentence. Inadequate, the inadequate that every achha hai is when the thing, which was described is not just good but is the thing that saves you, the saving being: you made me chai and poha on a morning when I woke from a nightmare about my dead parents' hands reaching through earth and the chai and poha is the antidote, the antidote: life. Ordinary life. The ordinary that the new world has destroyed and that you, Janhavi, have reconstructed in a dead family's kitchen in Wardha with stolen powdered milk and leftover dani.

"Obviously," she says. And grins.

---

The chai glass burned her palm. She shifted it to her fingertips.

We leave Wardha at 8 AM. The 8 AM being late; later than I wanted, the later — cost ofJanhavi's surprise breakfast and the breakfast: worth the cost because the breakfast means: energy. Fuel. The fuel that 660 kilometres requires.

We walk south. Out of Wardha. Back onto NH44. The highway that stretches south toward, toward the next city. The next stop. The next night.

"Aaj ka target kya hai?" Janhavi asks. What's today's target?

"Amravati. Shayad. Agar hum tez chale toh; shayad kal tak."

Amravati. Maybe. If we walk fast enough; maybe by tomorrow.

"Kitna door?"

How far?

"Google Maps bol raha hai — 70 kilometres, approximately. Woh kal pe nahi, parson pe hoga."

Google Maps says, 70 kilometres, approximately. That won't be tomorrow, more like the day after.

"Theek hai. Chalte hain."

The walking resuming. The chap-chap-chap of Sparx chappals on NH44 asphalt. Two pairs. One slightly behind the other. The pattern that will become our rhythm: the rhythm that 700 kilometres produces in two people who walk together: step-step-step, gap, step-step-step, gap, the gap, which was half-second that separates my stride from hers, the half-second that is the musical rest in the symphony of walking. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

The Vidarbha countryside opening around us, the fields, the babool trees, the flat horizon that is the Vidarbha identity: flat. Always flat. The flatness that the Deccan Plateau provides and that the Deccan Plateau does not apologize for.

We walk. South. Toward Amravati. Toward Aurangabad. Toward Pune.

Toward Shlok.

660 kilometres remaining.

One chappal at a time.