And finally the cobra-wallah – or monkey-man, or bone-setter, or even Lifafa Das of the peepshow on wheels – saying, ‘Too much prophecy, man. Our Ramram made too much damn prophecy tonight.’
Many years later, at the time of her premature dotage, when all k’nds of ghosts welled out of her past to dance before her eyes, my mother saw once again the peepshow man whom she saved by announcing my coming and who repaid her by leading her to too much prophecy, and spoke to him evenly, without rancour. ‘So you’re back ‘ she said, ‘Well, let me tell you this: I wish I’d understood what your cousinji meant – about blood, about knees and nose. Because who knows? I might have had a different son.’
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Like my grandfather at the beginning, in a webbed corridor in a blind man’s house, and again at the end; like Mary Pereira after she lost her Joseph, and like me, my mother was good at seeing ghosts.
But now, because there are yet more questions and ambiguities, I am obliged to voice certain suspicions. Suspicion, too, is a monster with too many heads; why, then, can’t I stop myself unleashing it at my own mother? … What, I ask, would be a fair description of the seer’s mach? And memory – my new, all-knowing memory, which encompasses most of the lives of mother father grandfather grandmother and everyone else – answers: soft; squashy as cornflour pudding.
Again, reluctantly, I ask: What was the condition of his lips? And the inevitable response: full; overfleshed; poetic. A third time I interrogate this memory of mine: what of Ms hair? The reply: thinning; dark; lank; worming over his ears. And now my unreasonable suspicions ask the ultimate question … did Amina, pure-as-pure, actually … because of her weakness for men who resembled Nadir Khan, could she have… in her odd frame of mind, and moved by the seer’s illness, might she not … ‘No!’ Padma shouts, furiously. ‘How dare you suggest?
About that good woman – your own mother? That she would? You do not know one thing and still you say it?’ And, of course, she is right, as always. If she knew, she would say I was only getting my revenge, for what I certainly did see Amina doing, years through the grimy windows of the Pioneer Cafe; and maybe that’s where my irrational notion was born, to grow illogically backwards in time, and arrive fully mature at this earlier – and yes, almost certainly innocent – adventure. Yes, that must be it. But the monster won’t lie down…
‘Ah,’ it says, ‘but what about the matter of her tantrum – the one she threw the day Ahmed announced they were moving to Bombay?’ Now it mimics her: ‘You – always you decide. What about me? Suppose I don’t want… I’ve only now got this house straight and already…!’ So, Padma: was that housewifely zeal – or a masquerade?
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