It rains so uglily. Especially at this time of the year when the little American town of Beaver Springs sits under an umbrella of eastbound rains. “It is raining uglily.” Nine year-old Uma gripes in her mind. She watches the rain in movie theater-silence from the window of their three-bedroom home and wonders why the rain falls in fragmented scatters, like a dismembered body whose pieces drop one by one, obstructing cries and whispers. But need Uma be worried now? Grandpa is behind her, standing at the bedside table holding a glass of milk for her. Father is on the floor above, glued to a blue screen and a bunch of papers. Most importantly, mother is right next to her, walked down from the cabinet. Mom’s pear-shaped face highlighted by polished chestnut frames reflecting the evening’s dull light through the window. Very still. But mom smells of star fruits even now, untouched by the sandalwood incense stick grandpa has lighted in front of her photograph. As in the photo, her hair black, parted in the middle, shows a smear of red powder. Dark eyes – like Uma’s – smile. Are you as tall as me already Uma? No, perhaps not! It’s only been a year mom … Standing next to Uma she stares at the rain. Mom listen, the rain does sing ‘rimjhim, rimjhim’ to me but I can’t hear, Uma wants to tell her, but she can’t yet. She doesn’t want to remember anything ever to do with the rain. Burnt skin, mangled flesh, charred faces. No, she never wants to imagine her mother in that mess. Although, when the men in uniforms came to her dad, they said that Mrs. Nath was nowhere to be found. “No shreds of clothing. No identifying item. Sorry, Mr. Nath.”
**
Watching the rain, Uma sees herself at a busy marketplace in the huge and crowded city of Delhi they had visited last autumn. Where a big noise had drowned all other voices and sounds in its loud ‘bang’. Her jammed eardrums had reverberated like soundless strings of a musical instrument broken somewhere deep inside its belly. Her own belly then had spun and she had wailed unknowingly. “The darned thing came from a car,” an awestruck shopper had yelled. “No, from a bag!” Whimpered others whose faces had peeled off or whose arms did a solitary dangle. “Terrorists! God help us!” Screamed yet others. So much screaming. Uma had very little idea what they talked about although she recognized the frantic shopkeeper who ran to her. Uma and her mother had gone into his shop to buy coconut candies and fritters that they never got to eat. Her mother wasn’t around. And Scruffy Man? Did he get to his kids that evening? Maybe not.
She sighs. It isn’t nice remembering all this.
That Indian autumn was as crisp and balmy as it could be for her senses, like fresh fried fritters. Visiting her grandparents in Delhi, Uma was excited to learn about Diwali while shopping in the crowded marketplace where it looked like half of Beaver Springs could fit in there. She knew a bit about Diwali. Every Diwali her friends were encouraged to share stories in the Beaver Springs community hall, especially those that had already been to their cousins’ and uncle’s homes in cities that were oceans away, with interesting names like Indore, Bombay or Lucknow. Even a sparkler-sounding name – Trichy! Uma knew folks waited to celebrate every year after summer had passed and winter was still to arrive. That’s when the stores spilled with people and goodies and now she knows, with laughter morphed to wails and rain congealed as blood. “What do terrorists eat daddy?” She had wanted to ask later. “Were they angry because they didn’t have enough sweets and candies like us rest?” Dad didn’t reply, instead asked impatiently: “Did you see something Uma? You remember anything? About mom?” She kept quiet. She cried.
