My father killed himself and everyone was relieved. He was sick for a long time, and mad for even longer. For a few weeks before he died, mother had locked him up in the only room with an attached bathroom in the old house, and attended to him thrice a day to bring him food and to take the dirty dishes back.

When Usha aunty called me at 3 in the morning, my heart skipped a beat, because she never calls me; besides, nobody ever calls me at 3 am. I knew father was unsound—relatives and neighbours ensured that I never escape family news even though I escaped my family. Truth to be told, I am grateful for their occasional interventions. When I was struggling in the city to make ends meet, reminders on how bad things were back home affirmed my decision to
leave.

The town has changed. There is shelter now at the bus stop—a couple of benches and a roof above with a hoarding that boasts a 3 lakhs expenditure. I guess no one will now have to cram under the tamarind tree that never fully shielded us from rain or sun. There are also more shops than houses along the sides of the now pothole-free road. Suni chettan still stands in front of Paris hotel selling lottery and paan. The smell of crispy pazhampori from
the still-standing tea stall engulfs the air. I decide to walk home. It is just under two kilometres away.

I arrive at the meadow where I used to occasionally play at. The afternoon air is crisp and featherlight. There is no dampness on the earth; and hence no slugs. I could frolic here till dusk if I wish to. But the rituals must have started. If I don’t reach soon, I might not be able to see father for one last time.

My legs tremble. I feel nauseas with every wobbly step I take. Do I really need to see him go? My roommate thinks I’ll regret it if I don’t take a final glance. If only she knew all I ever did as a child was to not glance at him or come under his. I would deliberately fry the pappadams just as he sits down to eat so that I have an excuse to be away in the kitchen and not stand opposite to him in the dining hall. And of course, when I ran out of pappadams, I could wash the dishes in the sink or rearrange the jumbled tins of lentils. The chores never ended in my house. Mother would mostly be cooped up in her sewing room, and my sister almost only ever partook in household affairs if she felt jittery and needed to keep her hands “busy”. Meanwhile, father would talk to the voices with utmost caution and offer them a share of his food, lest they try to “attack him from behind”.

I am close. I can hear wailing from a distance. It sounds like my aunts—father’s beloved younger sisters. With each step I take towards home, it feels like a dark cloud comes close to me. But I cannot stop now. This is it. My only chance at a goodbye.

As I manoeuvre my way through the crowd, the cries turn feeble. Everyone is shocked to see me. And before I realise it, my eyes brim with tears. This is the only man I’ve ever tolerated, the one person whose validation I craved even though it did not make any sense. I was a fool to think that I wouldn’t shed a tear. Mother glares at me from the window of her sewing room. Sister trots forward and presses my arm in acknowledgement. I’m home. As dreadfully
hostile as it is.

After the cremation, the aunts insisted that I stay back for a couple of days.

“But I have work—”

“My child, your boss will understand!”

I look at mother for the semblance of an approval or recognition. She remains cold as ever.

“I’ll stay tonight, aunty.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll decide the rest tomorrow morning”, Usha aunty declares as she takes my
bag inside.

I resort to sister’s room. She lies in the bed, tired and sleepy. I lie beside her, careful not to disturb her. I stare at the ceiling. It has cracked in the corners due to mold. The room smells of dampness and medicines. In fact, this whole house does. A suffocating restlessness takes over me. I cannot be here. I must take my bag from wherever Usha aunty has hidden it and leave at once. If I casually walk out of the kitchen door, sprint through Thresia aunty’s coconut plantation and catch an auto from the T road junction, I’ll be able to catch the last
bus.

The sky has turned a bright indigo blue. Most of the guests have left. Only a few close relatives remain. Sister has occupied the bathroom to take a shower. My aunts are asleep on a mat in the hall, and mother has already resumed work—a deafening clamour from the ancient sewing machine fills the porous house. My uncle; mother’s estranged brother who has recently made a few appearances in the town with his new family, is making arrangements for the dinner and the cleanup in the courtyard.

I look for my bag everywhere. It’s nowhere in sight. In fact, most of the house has been suddenly cleared up to make more space. Is no one planning to go back home till the 16th day ceremony? I stand dubious in the middle of the hall, wondering whether I should wakeUsha aunty to ask for my bag. No, that would defeat the whole purpose. They’ll lock me up like mother did father. Ah yes, it dawns on me. My bag must be in father’s room.

Father’s room is behind the hall, opposite to the kitchen door. I tiptoe to the door, which is latched shut. Just as I open it, a pungence leaks out—a blend of allopathic and herbal pills for the madness, ayurvedic concoctions for his joints, and a box of neatly arranged tablets for a whole host of lifestyle diseases.

Father’s room is filled with all the unnecessary things in the house—stacks of old newspaper and books, laundry baskets, and everyone’s luggage, including my bag. I grab it and decide to run one last scan of the room. For all I care, only another funeral could take me back here.

There aren’t many things in his shelf. There is steel tumbler, a plate and a pair of spoons on the top. Inside, some clothes, a stack of cards, and a beedi pack with a couple of joints left. I immediately put them in my pockets. Frankly, I am a bit disappointed. I would’ve preferred a small souvenir, but all I find here are remnants that could belong to anyone—not something that reminds me of my father. Alas, how would I even know who he was? I haven’t seen him in eight years.

I caress the walls with father’s old paintings. A lot of them have lost pigments. A few framed ones have turned dusty. I wipe them with my shawl when suddenly; I hear water thrashing on a floor. The sound is from very close. Is it from the attached bathroom? But who could possibly be inside? This bedroom was closed all day.

On a bright evening like today years ago, when father was having an episode, I remember mother and the neighbourhood uncle taking him to the hospital. They returned around midnight, and father was all mellowed down. As I tucked him in bed, as was part of my routine, he clutched onto my fingers tight and confessed that he was not mad.

“It’s not me, mole. There is nothing wrong with me. It’s them”.

“Who, father?”, I asked him unenthusiastically, sucking up all the rage against him for keeping me awake on a school night.

“It’s your grandpa and grandma”.

My grandparents died at a temple fire during their annual pilgrimage to Tirumala. I remember it vividly because I had just turned six, and they enrolled me in school. I begged them to take me on the trip but my grandma said “little girls can’t skip school ‘cause little girls need better jobs than little boys”. Two days later, their carcasses came in black PVC bags in an Andhra government ambulance. I have never been happy since.

Naturally, when father spoke of my grandparents, I scorned at him for reminding me of them. I loosened his grip over my fingers and walked out of the room. I remember hearing whimpers and not knowing whether it was me who was crying, or him.

I find myself whimpering now, perhaps not out of angst, but out of fear. Are grandma and grandpa inside the bathroom? They couldn’t be. I march to the bathroom door, gather all my strength and open it at once. No, the tap is not on. No one’s inside. But the floor is freshly wet right under the tap.

I feel a bolt of chill through my spine. I cannot stay here any longer. But just as I turn, I notice the lid of the toilet flush slightly ajar. Something is inside. I take a few careful steps to take a peek. It is a diary filled with sketches of my grandparents in the house, but not as I remember them; happy, jovial and nurturing. But as battered and burned; half naked, sitting across us at the dining table as we ate, watching over as sister and I did homework in the balcony, and most frequently, following father around. My father has sketched over a hundred pages. Each sketch progressively ominous than before. Are my grandparents watching me as I scroll past these pages? From the corners of the wall above me? I dare not look up.

I rush out of the bathroom, put the diary in my bag and run. The night has turned darker. I run with all my might through the coconut plantation, through the roads and through the bustling market, before I finally catch the bus as it leaves the station.

I sit on a cold empty seat and gives out a few notes dampened by my sweat to the conductor who gives me a ticket and few coins in return. I look at all the sketches again; this time not in shock, but in sheer desperation to see what all my grandparents witnessed as I grew up. Did they notice when father hung my medals on the rusty old nail under their photos on the wall? Were they present when mother moved out of father’s room for good? Were they looking out for me on the day I ran away from home? I burst into tears again. The conductor and a few passengers notice but thankfully let me be.

I close the diary and keep it back inside my bag. I rub my face with my shawl and look straight ahead. And there he is—my father with a dhoti around his neck that he used to kill himself with, sitting next to the bus driver on the gear seat, looking at me with a gentle smile on his face. He is not as scary as my grandparents. I smile back at him.