“Sundari-amma is here.”
The voice boomed amidst the crowd, and a wave of silence ensued across the entire verandah.
The drums faltered—not stopping, but restrained. The horns dragged into a long, uneasy note before dying out. Vihaan felt it before he saw her: the subtle shift in posture around him. Men straightened their backs; women adjusted their sarees. Conversations died mid-syllable. Even the children, who had been darting between chairs moments ago, froze where they stood. Even they understood.
A path opened in the crowd.
The drumbeats became more rapid, heavier. The horns rose again, louder than ever, and the relentless rhythm refused to stop.
Sundari walked slowly, supported on one side by Maya. She wasn’t as frail or weak as Baby, but age had caught up to her too; her face was creased and her hair grey. Her body was undeniably withered, yet she remained nimble.
Without giving it a second thought, Vihaan walked up to her. He took her other hand, supporting her movements. He and Maya caught eyes; she smiled at him.
Vihaan noticed that Maya was wearing a different attire this time: a bright teal-colored kurta paired with white pants and a shawl. A pair of oxidized silver jhumkas complemented the bright lights surrounding them.
Sundari was startled by a stranger holding her hand, but as she looked at Vihaan and observed his features, it all made sense to her.
“Enna porludha baale,” she said, holding her hand to his face. “Ee eth malla atha.”
(“My beautiful boy! You have grown so much.”)
Vihaan smiled at her. “Eer encha ullar Dhodda?”
(“How are you, Dhodda?”)
“I am well,” Sundari answered.
Vihaan and Maya held her by each arm and guided her to a chair. It was a wooden chair reserved just for her, one of three such chairs placed beside the area where the Kola was to be performed.
Sundari had difficulty taking her chappals off, so Vihaan bent over and helped her. Sundari gave him a warm smile.
“You are still a good boy,” she said. “God bless you, my child.”
Shekar keenly observed Vihaan’s interaction with Sundari. He walked up to them and touched Sundari’s feet.
“How are you?” He showered her with an obligatory greeting. “Are you well?”
“Yes, I am well,” Sundari answered. “What about you?”
“I am perfectly fine. All by your blessings.”
Shekar walked past Sundari’s chair and positioned himself directly behind it—exactly between Vihaan and Maya.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know?” he whispered. “Help her with her chappals. She has her own people for that.”
“You are from the Dombottu house,” he added. “Also a restaurateur. Act like one.”
Vihaan took a deep breath. Shekar’s words invoked a deep sense of resentment that he usually tended to avoid exploring. What does this man know of acting a certain way? he thought, but he did not say anything.
“No,” Vihaan uttered, almost involuntarily. “I did it because I feel it is the right thing to do.”
“Don’t you always say?” Vihaan decided to go all out. “Respect your elders. I did.”
Shekar looked at him with a subtle hint of surprise and a visible amount of discomfort. He smiled at Vihaan and then patted his back.
“Yes, good,” he said, and walked away.
“Okay, that was brutal,” Maya commented. “He won’t be happy about it.”
“I am sorry for what he said,” Vihaan said, realizing that Maya had been privy to the conversation.
“I don’t mind,” Maya replied. “I have learned not to pay attention to what old people say.”
Vihaan chuckled.
“But the way you responded—it was nice,” she added. “Naive and foolish. But nice.”
Vihaan smiled. He felt a subtle blush creep up, which he actively tried to suppress.
“You look pretty,” he commented. “The outfit suits you.”
“Thanks, Vihaan,” she replied. “You too. Really good choice in kurta. It makes you look good.”
Before Vihaan could say anything else, the sound from the orchestra dropped. Everyone stopped playing, and all that remained was the noticeable chime of anklets.
It was the Patri; he had entered his stage.
The Patri walked slowly around the area in circles, and with each step, the sound of the anklets grew louder and louder. He then walked toward Malathi, who was standing near the house door.
“Illadha Ullaldhini leppule,” he said.
(“Call the landlady.”)
Malathi went inside, and everyone fixated their eyes on the door. For a few moments, nothing happened; then, as some gazes faltered, Keshav’s enormous frame came into view.
He was carrying Baby in his arms.
She wasn’t in her nightgown anymore, but was wearing a saree whose blouse no longer stayed over her shoulders. Keshav slowly stepped out of the house and gently placed Baby in the chair beside Sundari. Due to her age, Baby slowly turned toward Sundari and joined her hands together.
“Solmelu,” a raspy voice oozed from her throat.
(“Greetings.”)
“Solmelu,” Sundari replied.
The Patri walked up to Sundari and bowed to her.
“Appe!” he screamed, before calming his voice. “Ninna magan leppula appe.”
(“Mother! Call your son, Mother.”)
“Let him come,” Sundari muttered in Tulu.
The Patri lunged toward the center of the stage and dropped to the floor. He sat down with his forehead touching the ground.
“Bringing the dead back because of a dance? It’s quite funny,” Vihaan remarked to Maya.
“I don’t know, Vihaan. It is not just us,” Maya answered. “Throughout the world, among different cultures, there are legends of people who can use music and dance to break the veil between life and death.”
The drums started beating. First just a beat, then another, and another. The horns blew, and with the rising rhythm, he rose.
He turned and began crawling on all fours. After circling the area once, he again approached Sundari, but with each step he began to rise. By the time he was in front of Sundari, he was standing tall on his feet.
“Appe!!!!” he screamed, but the voice had changed. It was no longer the Patri’s soft voice; something harsher and deeper had taken over.
“Ee lettinek ninan thuvare yaan, ninna malla mage batte, Appe!”
(“Heeding your call, I, your eldest son, have arrived to see you.”)
He backflipped to the center of the stage. Gulping down burning camphor, he screamed.
The drums erupted and horns were heard from one edge of Dombottu to the other. The Patri was no more.
Kesanna had arrived.
Kesanna snatched a fire-torch from the hands of one of the priest’s helpers. He waved it around as he danced to the thundering music.
Vihaan looked at his grandma; there were tears in her eyes. Even in her weakened state, she had wrapped her saree shawl around her neck, opening her arms toward Kesanna. As for Sundari, she did nothing.
Kesanna screamed, louder than any drum or horn. He then hit himself with the torch repeatedly, finally extinguishing the fire by smothering it with his palm.
The priest and his men brought buckets of areca nuts, peeled and hidden under a betel-leaf wrap. They placed the buckets in front of Kesanna, and the priest made a gesture that Vihaan couldn’t decipher.
Kesanna raised his hand and touched each bucket before returning to his whirling performance. The priest and his men quickly moved the buckets out of Kesanna’s way.
Kesanna then approached the priest and rubbed his stomach, gesturing his hunger. The priest pointed at Sundari.
Kesanna approached his mother again, but she remained cold and unresponsive. For a moment, Kesanna cowered back before slowly shifting his gaze toward Baby. Adopting a confident posture, he gestured his hunger toward the Dombottu matriarch.
Keshav, waiting for this exact moment, nodded to his men. They brought a large cylindrical cauldron of milk and placed it in front of Kesanna.
The smell, Vihaan thought.
Kesanna screamed and danced with joy. He flipped around the stage a couple more times as the crowd watched in awe. Everyone except Vihaan.
He could feel his stomach churning; the raw, cold smell of the liquid crawled through his body like drops of sweat. He closed his eyes in disgust.
But then he felt the heat building up and the sound of the anklets intensified. When he opened his eyes, Kesanna was standing in front of him, staring into his face. Vihaan gulped as the sudden revelation sent a chill from his head to his toes.
Kesanna screamed in his face, almost bursting Vihaan’s eardrums. He then offered Vihaan a wicked smile before jumping back onto the stage.
Kesanna picked up the cauldron and poured it over his own face. Drinking as much as possible, he let the rest slide down his body and onto the floor.
As the milk hit Kesanna’s face, Vihaan couldn’t help but think of its distilled, lacteal odor. His throat constricted, and he almost gagged. He managed to stop it midway.
But then it seemed his internal organs had failed his command, and he was hit with another wave of nausea. Before he could externalize it, he felt a warm touch on the palm of his left hand.
It was Maya. She held his hand, and when he looked at her, she nodded to acknowledge her presence.
“Take a deep breath,” she whispered.