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.One of the people living in your house is planning to kill you.”There was a silence at the other end.Then the voice, hissing and heavy, yet small and tinny at the same time, said, “Who is this?”My mother didn’t say anything.“Is this a crank call? I’m going to phone the police, have you traced—”“Mr.Raghavendra,” my mother said, “you have to believe me.It’s probably your cousin, whom you sponsored from India six months ago.He’s been living in your house since then, right? Does his name start with the letter H?”Silence again.“I think he’s developed a—relationship—with your wife— and wants you out of the—”“How do you know this?” He sounded oddly calm.“I can’t tell you that.”“Someone’s put you up to this, yes? A practical joke, yes?”“No joke,” my mother said.“Then you’re crazy!” He was shouting now.“Completely nuts! I’m going to have you committed.I’m going to come after you personally and—”I found myself sobbing.I wasn’t sure what I was more scared of: that the man would somehow learn who my mother was and find her—and by extension, us—as he threatened.Or that he was right, and she was crazy.“I did my best, Mr.Raghavendra,” my mother said sadly.“Now it’s up to you.”And while the man ranted on about what he would do to her once he found her, she replaced the phone with shaking hands.She started off blindly across the parking lot, unaware of a delivery truck that had just turned the corner.I screamed.There was a shrieking of brakes.A large, red-faced man leaned out from the truck window and yelled.“Stupid broad! Ain’tcha got eyes in yer head? Coulda gotten killed!”My mother didn’t seem to hear him.She made her way to the bushes on the street corner and threw up there.I’d reached her by then.I held her head as she heaved and retched.I glared at passersby who gave us distasteful looks, and wiped her face the best I could with a piece of tissue I had in my pocket.I was ready to run back to the public phone and open the yellow pages and call a doctor—any doctor—but my mother held on to my arm.“I’m better now,” she said.And she was.I could see it from her eyes, which were clear again.Whatever had made her ill had left her, now that she had passed on her dream.A few months later I gathered my courage and asked my mother about what had happened that morning.She looked at me with a small frown and said, “What morning, shona? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”I looked at her guileless gaze.She wasn’t lying, I could tell that much.My mouth went dry.Was that part of the dream teller’s gift, this ability to erase something once your duty to it was done? Would she erase us like this one day, my father and myself?Or—but no.I didn’t imagine the incident.I’m sure I didn’t.I think sometimes of how strongly a person would have to believe in herself—and the truth of her dreaming—to do what my mother did that morning.And many other mornings, I’m sure, though she never again asked for my help.I remember the thick rage in the man’s voice and think, I couldn’t have taken on such a task.Thank God my world is simpler.Even my tragedies are simple ones, colored in commonplace hues.But here’s what’s crazy: I’m thankful, and then, the next moment, I’m filled with regret.Because I’ll never enter my mother’s underground domain, those caves peopled with possibilities, what may or may not come to pass, where one plus one can equal one hundred—or zero.7Her mother’s line is still busy.Rakhi is annoyed at this, but not surprised.Her mother spends much of her day on the phone, probably because her clients prefer not to meet her.Perhaps she prefers not to meet them, too.It would be awkward, dangerous even, if they came across each other later—perhaps at the grocery store or a social event, except her mother no longer attends those.This much is definite: Rakhi has never met any of them.She listens to the short beeps.Impatience pricks her skin like darts, enters her bloodstream [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.One of the people living in your house is planning to kill you.”There was a silence at the other end.Then the voice, hissing and heavy, yet small and tinny at the same time, said, “Who is this?”My mother didn’t say anything.“Is this a crank call? I’m going to phone the police, have you traced—”“Mr.Raghavendra,” my mother said, “you have to believe me.It’s probably your cousin, whom you sponsored from India six months ago.He’s been living in your house since then, right? Does his name start with the letter H?”Silence again.“I think he’s developed a—relationship—with your wife— and wants you out of the—”“How do you know this?” He sounded oddly calm.“I can’t tell you that.”“Someone’s put you up to this, yes? A practical joke, yes?”“No joke,” my mother said.“Then you’re crazy!” He was shouting now.“Completely nuts! I’m going to have you committed.I’m going to come after you personally and—”I found myself sobbing.I wasn’t sure what I was more scared of: that the man would somehow learn who my mother was and find her—and by extension, us—as he threatened.Or that he was right, and she was crazy.“I did my best, Mr.Raghavendra,” my mother said sadly.“Now it’s up to you.”And while the man ranted on about what he would do to her once he found her, she replaced the phone with shaking hands.She started off blindly across the parking lot, unaware of a delivery truck that had just turned the corner.I screamed.There was a shrieking of brakes.A large, red-faced man leaned out from the truck window and yelled.“Stupid broad! Ain’tcha got eyes in yer head? Coulda gotten killed!”My mother didn’t seem to hear him.She made her way to the bushes on the street corner and threw up there.I’d reached her by then.I held her head as she heaved and retched.I glared at passersby who gave us distasteful looks, and wiped her face the best I could with a piece of tissue I had in my pocket.I was ready to run back to the public phone and open the yellow pages and call a doctor—any doctor—but my mother held on to my arm.“I’m better now,” she said.And she was.I could see it from her eyes, which were clear again.Whatever had made her ill had left her, now that she had passed on her dream.A few months later I gathered my courage and asked my mother about what had happened that morning.She looked at me with a small frown and said, “What morning, shona? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”I looked at her guileless gaze.She wasn’t lying, I could tell that much.My mouth went dry.Was that part of the dream teller’s gift, this ability to erase something once your duty to it was done? Would she erase us like this one day, my father and myself?Or—but no.I didn’t imagine the incident.I’m sure I didn’t.I think sometimes of how strongly a person would have to believe in herself—and the truth of her dreaming—to do what my mother did that morning.And many other mornings, I’m sure, though she never again asked for my help.I remember the thick rage in the man’s voice and think, I couldn’t have taken on such a task.Thank God my world is simpler.Even my tragedies are simple ones, colored in commonplace hues.But here’s what’s crazy: I’m thankful, and then, the next moment, I’m filled with regret.Because I’ll never enter my mother’s underground domain, those caves peopled with possibilities, what may or may not come to pass, where one plus one can equal one hundred—or zero.7Her mother’s line is still busy.Rakhi is annoyed at this, but not surprised.Her mother spends much of her day on the phone, probably because her clients prefer not to meet her.Perhaps she prefers not to meet them, too.It would be awkward, dangerous even, if they came across each other later—perhaps at the grocery store or a social event, except her mother no longer attends those.This much is definite: Rakhi has never met any of them.She listens to the short beeps.Impatience pricks her skin like darts, enters her bloodstream [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]