Clockwork Heart

You try to sleep off the jetlag but get thwarted by the cacophony of vile scents invading your cabin. You desperately wrap your Oxford scarf around your nose, hoping the smell of the carefully placed cow excrement every ten meters would not pervade the thick British winter fabric. However, shit from a holy animal or not doesn’t care if you’re a Rhodes scholar or not. Certainly not its smell. And so sleep heads north while you continue south. You look at your two giant luggage bags—one filled with memorabilia of your time in Oxford—a gold medal for the Hertford Essay Prize, two silver medals for the annual intercollegiate rowing competition, and tucked inside a small bronze box is the lesser known Becker Finn prize you won for chugging the most beer down at the Alchemist during your freshman initiation. The other luggage bag contains hastily-bought souvenirs for your family—a Jo Malone perfume for your appa, a set of Harry Potter robe and wand for your little brother, and a box of Christmas candy canes for all the kids in the neighbourhood. Also wrapped neatly in velvet sheets is the wine-coloured saree with golden borders you picked up for ammachi in Madras, for which you are now having second thoughts. “You’ve broken not one, but two commandments,” you hear ammachi whisper. “Thou shall not buy anything for me,” and the former, “Thou shall book a flight and not a train back home.” 

In a few hours, you would see her standing at the Ernakulam Junction in front of platform number 3, and she would not wave but wait for you to. As you run to her, she would throw her arms open and embrace you, because that’s what loving mothers do. You wonder what she would say after all these years. Your mind drifts from branch to branch along the jackfruit trees outside the rusty bars, which would soon be replaced by the tropical dance of palm trees as the air grew saltier. You count the number of Bengali migrants who get off at the Katpadi Junction and finally drift to sleep.

When you wake up, it’s 3 in the morning. The early bird still hasn’t risen and the worms still have a few moon slices to enjoy the pitter-patter of the rain. You take your notebook and rehearse the lines in your head, “Greetings, amma.” “How have father and brother been?” Just then, ammachi sneaks up on you and whispers, “They’ve been good. But where is your husband, makal?” 

As you get off the station, it is seven thirty-five in the morning. You see ammachi in her green polka-dot saree she wears everyday to work, and you apologize on behalf of the train for being five minutes late as she embraces you. Because that’s what loving mothers do. You get into the car, right foot first, seatbelt on as she drives you home before heading for work. “You’ve gained weight,” she finally mutters after ten minutes. You try to gauge her expression from the sides of your eyes, but the raccoon living under them swats them away. “I know, amma. I’m sorry,” you say. As the traffic comes to a halt, you apologize again on behalf of the Kochi highway department or transport minister or whoever the heck is to blame. As she swerves into Palarivattom, the metro shakes the car gently, and though you aren’t sure if you were to blame, you apologize anyway. “Why are you wearing that scarf in this heat?”, she finally speaks again, an oasis of words in the wet Kochi desert. “Amma, Heathrow was so cold I had to wear the scarf, and I simply forgot to take it off.” She laughs—the Nile after a day’s journey through the Sahara. You tell her of your trip to Southampton where you saw a seagull snatching a chocolate bar from a toddler by the wharf, and how your cousin Ninan got food poisoning from oysters and had to be hospitalized for three days. “You should be careful, mol. I heard they could give you hepatitis.” Five minutes after passing old Mukhilan’s diner she asks you if you are hungry and you say no.

She stops at the zebra crossing near Changampuzha Park, where two menakas clad in colorful mudstained sarees are selling unripe bananas to the cars and you see monkeys following them along the balconies. Ammachi grabs her crucifix and veils her mouth with her saree. “Vermin of the earth,” you hear her whisper though you can’t see her mouth. “Shiva smite them.” You shudder at her words. Sometimes you don’t know what god she prays to at night.

As you roll up the gateway, Velu, the security guard greets you and you notice he has amassed maybe fifty strands of new grey hair. He seems to come towards you to hug you, but refrains when ammachi  gets out of the car. “Only loving mothers may embrace their children,” the ghost whispers. Ammachi quickly gestures to you to follow her and you hurry—remember, your train was five minutes late. She shows you to your room upstairs which has been polished clean and repainted viridian green—which ammachi thinks is your favourite color. “I think it goes with the palm trees,” she says. Velu drops the last of your bags with a thump. She goes down to the kitchen and makes up for the five minutes she lost by quickly frying you up an egg to go with the toast even though you tell her for the second time that you’re not hungry. She asks you if you are dieting and you say no, and tells you that you should. “I know, amma, I’m sorry.” She tells you how your cousin Susan had the evil eye because she couldn’t stop eating sweets, and once she stopped she became happy and found a good husband. “Maybe that’s what’s keeping us from finding a suitor for you, ah?” “I know, amma, I’m sorry.” 

You finish your toast and get up to do the dishes while ammachi walks back to the car and gets in. She looks at you through the kitchen window, “Mol, I’ll be arranging a few visits to some friends of your father’s. Go get your hair fixed, and do not invite your friends over for some time.” You watch her roll down the driveway backwards as she always does. 

You go up to your room and check the time. It is now ten minutes past eleven, and you make a wish for The Beatles to reunite one more time. It eats you alive, so you search for the bloodied broom ammachi had used on you and your brother, two streaks of abrasion scars highlighted in dark lines across both your left bums. Yours for running away at the age of sixteen, two days before your Pennu Kaanal and his for keeping quiet. Stupid, you thought, that the murderer and the accomplice get equal punishments. Whoever god she prays to, she needs a lesson in triage. You do not find the broom, only the scar on your bum.

When ammachi comes back in the evening, she calls your name. You run downstairs to make her tea. At least that much you can manage, with your Oxford education—just the way she likes it, twelve dips of the bag when the water just starts to boil, and then add two grounded cardamom seeds and a splash of honey. You bring it to her in her study as she sips and motions you to sit. “Two things I need you to do tonight. We will have Dr. Kurian and his son over for dinner tonight, and I cannot have you looking like this,” she tugs at your hair and snips several  strands of your curly shriveled hair. “One, I need you to go to the salon today like I had asked you and get your hair straightened out. No wonder the amount of evil eyes on our family; they are all hiding in your hair.” She is reading a book by Tolstoy but you cannot see the title. “And secondly, do me a favour and form a thought to know when to speak. Oxford would be doing no good if one doesn’t know one’s turn to speak.” 

You remain standing waiting for her to finish the tea. When she does, you bow gently and take the cup and rinse it under the warm water till the flakes rise and fall over. You return to your room and put on your boots. You realise you haven’t showered since you came home. You tell yourself that it can wait. Anything can wait, even time if you ask politely. You take one last look at Ammachi before you leave, and then close the door. You picture her smiling in the evening when the guests would come and they would gawk at you like shoppers in a fishmarket. You unlock your old bicycle from the garage and head down the winding road. Cruising, you suddenly realise the jetlag is gone and that you are home.