One Foot In The Grave

Chapter 2: The Quiet Place

Vasu, Day 5

There was no dew on the trees; no more pale silver glistening on their leaves. Perhaps the upcoming summer was leaving signs. Vasu hadn't noticed them. He had been busy. As he slowed his running on the muddy street, dust packing in ragged clouds behind him, he read the name of the house. Dwaraka: the name etched on a granite tile beside the gate in bold white letters. When he first came here, he thought he read it wrong. Who would name their house after the lost city of Hindu mythology? As time passed, he developed a liking for the name. Now, even when he was sprinting like a wild animal, he read it as fast as he could. It became a habit.

He pushed the outer gate softly so it wouldn't screech, which reminded him to oil its hinges. The dry wind flew in the opposite direction from him, bringing the smell of the mangoes and he stepped on the grass of the lawn to mute his heavy, panting footsteps. His wristwatch beeped and the image 5:30 a.m. lit up in green. It was Yamuna's tea time. He walked fast, cursing himself for over-sleeping on the bus.

Taking the front door might bring trouble, so he ran around the house. He slipped into the kitchen through the back door, washed his face and neck in the sink and wiped himself dry with a kitchen cloth. If he looked sweaty, she might ask questions, which he couldn't answer. It wasn't as if he didn't believe in this family; he just needed to be sure.

Once he settled, his hands moved around robotically, placing the kettle on the stove, pouring the milk, and putting in the tea powder. He developed a knack for working in the kitchen faster than he expected. As the milk boiled, he leaned to the kitchen table and breathed. To be frank, he had better hopes when he was sneaking out of the house the previous night. The bus conductor provided no new information even after Vasu had bought him a quarter of the beer and spent two hours watching him sip his drink, abnormally lick the pickle and narrate his miserable marriage life. This little feat left Vasu with lesser money and more dread. It had been four days already, and police found nothing about his missing sister. He started wondering if they were trying at all.

"Vasudev." The voice of Yamuna reverberated down the house, making him jump to his feet.

He hurried into the living room, the cloth still resting on his right shoulder, and yelled, "I'm coming."

Vishwa and Yamuna had been looking after him and his sister, Bhanu, ever since their parents had died. Apparently, few people wouldn't think about their children before killing themselves. The villagers had always called them bad luck, but Yamuna always glared anyone who said it to silence. Bhanu. Her name hurt. Where are you? He asked himself several times. Are you okay? Are you eating?

He carried the tea to the first floor, the cup mildly rattling in the saucer as he climbed the stairs. The floor had an opening in the centre, offering a view of the ground floor. A three-foot cement parapet wall enclosed that opening. He veered to the right corridor, stopped near the second room, and its door was ajar. He learned during his stay here that you wouldn't have to knock on the half-opened doors.

"Tea?" he said, going in.

"As I would ever say no to that," Yamuna said, keen to grab the cup like it was a baby.

The floral nightie she wore complimented her brown skin. In her early fifties, with fresh wrinkles on her face, this woman always drew attention walking into a room. Vasu would be the rarest of people to see her in a nightie since her sarees held a name in the village for their opulence. Nonetheless, she and Vishwa weren't the kind to show off, unlike the village head's family, who would roam around in bulky cars and branded shoes. The eternal debate of who's the richest family would still go around the village.

While she devoured the tea, he strolled down the room, opening the windows and shaking the curtains. The chain of fenced windows allowed the sunlight in slant lines, which led the blanket on her king-sized bed to shine in golden-red. He admired the room-the shiny chandelier in the centre, antique light bulbs perched on the walls and the huge painting of Yamuna's late husband hanging on the wall opposite to her bed. It had been Vasu's dream to own a house like this. But these days he only dreamed of having his sister back.