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70
FICTION
THE RITE OF PASSAGE By Manasi Translated from the Malayalam by Rithwik Bhattathiri. The morning dew still lingered on the grass blades in the park. A group of old men was sitting in a corner. In their whites, they looked like a fetid wound on the green of the grass-bed. I watched them from the cold bench I had to myself. I was vainly trying to bury myself in the book I’d been holding for some time now. The world was already up and about. Sitting in that tiny alcove of tranquillity, the old men were singing praise to a god far removed, for granting them the earthly paradise. In the calmness of the park, their tired and broken voices faltered like dregs and hung about like an irritating impropriety. The sun had just started beating down. Their singing over, the old men dispersed and gathered themselves in the shades. I pushed my feet further into the soothing dampness of grass and tried to crawl back into my book. “I’d rather sit here,” said the old man. “I’m sure you don’t mind.” I had seen him coming but pretended I hadn’t. That he came to where I was sitting, though there were empty benches around, made me uneasy. However, for the sake of propriety, I said, “Please.” He sat down right next to me and smiled. “You stay alone?” I was a little taken aback. What a question! That too from a complete stranger! “Nope. With family.” “Same here. Kids?” “None,” I said, without taking my eyes off the book. “Oh! Husband, then?” I shot a look at him. My lack of interest in continuing the conversation must have turned him off. He lifted his bony, sinewy hands to his eyes and looked up at the sky. A piece of the sun lay puddled on the bench next to his leg. I hadn’t meant to be rude. But that patch of the sunlight on the bench, that crumpled figure, those creases on his skin, those varicose veins, everything about him was detestable, I felt. That expression I saw on his face nearly brought bile to my mouth. “Want to move into the shade?” I added as an apology. “It’s getting warmer.” “Thanks,” he gave me a wet smile. His eyes were rheumy, I noticed. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his shirtsleeve and smiled at me again. “He’s travelling, my husband is.” I gave a hurried answer to avoid having to hear the question again. I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t known what to say to my husband either, as he walked out the door that morning. I hadn’t known whether to stop him or let him go. It was only last night he’d told me about the other woman in his life. But I didn’t know that a mere “Bye” and a nod of the
