We had laughter once. A faulty faucet, on and off — eekeekeek. We had almond tea in chipped
porcelain cups, corners of poetry folded into notebooks, and gold thread pulled loose from saree
hems. Amma had this habit of checking locks twice, turning the latch with fingers inked by haldi
stains. Then the first explosion came, like the cracking of a joint, the air split itself into smoke
and blood. Wholes of life were reduced to ash, names that wouldn’t make it into tomorrow’s
papers. Still, Asha refuses to sit by the window. Still, I trace the singed edge of my scarf, fingers
catching on the blackened fabric, wondering if it remembers the fire.
Surely the fire remembers it, has burnt its covenant into the muslin like the lipstick stain after a
kiss. Survival is a choice that makes itself. Much like I hold Baba’s fountain pen, its nib bent,
wondering if his last words could have been written differently. Memory is an anchor that drags.
Much like after they found only his shoe, Asha scraped at the soot-streaked kitchen wall until her
hands blistered and went gummy. Much like I haven’t worn a kashmiri sari since I watched the
fabric catch fire in the lobby. Much like we had laughter once. Eekeekeek. That first night, when
the hotel roof flared red-orange against the sky, we thought the city would hold its breath for just
a moment before creaking out its exhalation. But air chokes quickly on itself.
Asha feels fire. Feels the cream-colored marble floors of the Taj. Feels white tablecloths,
smudged with smoke. Asha feels hotel lobby. Feels velvet chairs, overturned. Feels gold
earrings, one half missing, found pressed into a bloodied rug. Feels sugar cubes dissolving into
untouched cups of chai. Asha forgets bodies. Forgets gunfire. Feels marigold petals scattered on
the floor, soft beneath bare feet. Feels spiced cashews on silver trays. Feels charred silk, clinging
to wet skin. Feels light bulbs going out, one by one, until only darkness remains. Until no dead
fathers and paralyzed mothers can be seen. She is haunted by silence as am I. We wonder if this
is what survival looks like, this quiet, this pretending. We cover our eyes with our hands so at
least it’s us making the darkness.
Amma is tying her hair back, her hands trembling in rhythm with the morning aarti. Asha asked
for the brass urn, and I already know what this will mean. I can smell sandalwood powder
clinging to her fingertips, sharp and sacred. Asha is quiet the way guilt leaves a house hollow. In
a dream, Amma spills the urn into the sea. In a nightmare, I watch the ashes scatter and reform,
floating back to shore. A victim is just a witness. Asha will sit on the veranda, twisting red glass
into shards between her fingers, and we will pretend the silence is something we can survive.
Baba’s voice is nowhere and everywhere, clear only in the rustle of newspapers left unread on
the breakfast table. When the fire dims, this is what we carry: the smell of burning upholstery in
our hair, the shadow of a bullet hole in the wall, and Asha, pouring tea from an unbroken cup as
if this is enough to keep us alive.