Though each day was much the same—frequent visits from the neighbors, Birendra helping Mrs. Nair prepare food for this period of mourning, for there was no one else to help and it occupied their time—the first week, mercifully, had finally come to an end. On the fifth day, they received a visit from the priest again, and with Mr. Nair’s help, they gathered the ashes and remains from the pyre, placing some in an urn for the final ritual, in ten days’ time. Those remaining went in a pot they buried at the site of the pyre, over which they planted a coconut tree, along with rice and wheat, holy basil and turmeric. Birendra no longer hoped to return to school, though there was nothing he would have liked more. The priest had made it clear that the activities of his former life had to stop during this time, when his duty was to his mother’s atma; he alone was charged with delivering her peace. Birendra wanted to do this for his mother, but knowing that she, too, would not like him to be kept away from school, every day he missed it dreadfully. He listened carefully to the priest’s instructions, which he explained were different from the ways of the north, where his mother was from. But because they were in Kerala, and because it was what they had done for Birendra’s father, the southern customs would guide them.
And when the second week came, and the visitors disappeared, and Mrs. Nair’s kitchen was stocked with the food they’d made together, Birendra found the time to worry about how much school he was missing and how he would fall behind. He wondered about Mr. Mon’s plans for the reading club and about the library books he still needed to return. But he intuited that these concerns held no weight in the atmosphere of mourning, so he kept quiet and waited. He tried to focus on the fact that the letter he and Mrs. Nair had written was, each day, that much closer to its destination, but when days passed as slowly as this, it was small comfort. And while he felt certain that, upon learning the terrible news about his mother, his aunt and uncle would surely send a response immediately, he couldn’t make his own letter go any faster. Mr. Nair must have known this. When the sixteenth day arrived, and his mourning period had come to an end, where would he go?
Birendra realized in time that, though Mr. Nair was a quiet and brooding man, he was not mean. Birendra was especially grateful to him on the fifth day of rituals, for he had not wanted to retrieve the pieces of bone from the ash, and Mr. Nair had seen his fear and helped him do this, then helped him prepare them for the urn. His kindness was just a little different from what Birendra was used to. It could be found in Mr. Nair’s actions, not in his words.
On more than one morning the second week, Birendra awoke to damp earth, to droplets collected on the leaves of trees and plants from the night rains. He visited the site of his mother’s cremation often, to see if the seeds they’d sown had sprouted. He wanted proof that time was moving forward, that each day he awoke was different from the one before, that the letter was on its way, and that his family would soon follow. But the mound of dirt showed no signs of life or of time passing.
And yet the fifteenth day finally arrived. Time had been carrying on after all. Mr. Nair had not forgotten his promise that Birendra would leave. He spoke to Mrs. Nair of his cousin in Trivandrum, who was “better suited” to take Birendra in. Mrs. Nair shushed her husband at the mention of sending Birendra away, using his mourning as her excuse. That evening, at the dinner table, Mr. Nair spoke, and, for once, he seemed to be addressing Birendra as much as Mrs. Nair.
“I have some good news,” he said. Birendra’s head went fuzzy with excitement, but then he remembered that not enough time had passed for a letter to return from London. “I’ve spoken with my cousin Mr. Channar, and he’s agreed to take you in.” Birendra turned to Mrs. Nair, who was shaking her head at her husband. This made Mr. Nair angry, and Birendra thought he might shout at her, but he did not. He spoke slowly, in a way that left no room for doubt. “He will go Friday, and he will wait for his family there.”
Mrs. Nair sat back in her chair and stifled her tears. She seemed not to want to look at either of them. Birendra wanted to understand why she was opposed to the idea. Trivandrum was, after all, closer to his school, and he would be able to go back on the seventeenth day, wouldn’t he? He so wanted to see his friends and his teachers; he wanted homework again and to be able to check out new library books. He wanted to have something to remind him how life was when his mother was still part of it, instead of, day after day, to have nothing except the reminder that she was gone.
“It’s my cousin’s business to deal with orphans,” said Mr. Nair. “It’s right the boy should go to him.”
It took a moment for the full weight of the word to register. Birendra had never once considered that was what he was—an orphan—until he heard Mr. Nair say the word. Wasn’t it different when you were waiting for someone to come for you?
After dinner, seated once again by the mound of dirt at his former home, he recalled the sad tales of orphans that he’d heard from his mother or read in books, the difficulties and dangers they almost always faced. It took two weeks for a letter to arrive from London. If they responded right away, it could be thirteen more days. And that meant at least thirteen more days before he could become an orphan.
He awoke the following morning to the hush of voices in the darkness. Then the faint glow of candlelight in the kitchen. The priest had returned and was drinking tea with the Nairs. They were ready for him. His mother’s remains would now be taken out to sea. He carried her all the way from the village. Others joined them at the beach. For the first time since his mother died, Birendra wished that time would slow down. He wasn’t ready to let go. He clung to the urn and watched Mrs. Nair prepare three rice balls, which she placed on a banana leaf before the priest, who chanted a repeated prayer over them. Then Birendra cast his eyes out to sea, hoping to find his father there waiting. The banana leaf was placed to one side, and Birendra was told to set the urn down and clap three times. A crow and two pigeons immediately descended on the rice. And the priest told him that the crow was the representative of Yama, the god of death, who would be pleased by the offering and grant passage to Birendra’s mother. She had never told him that part of their story, and he was uncertain how he felt about its sudden revision. He chose instead to think of Yami, Yama’s twin sister, and imagined her standing beside his father, with her diya lighting the path and her song guiding his mother. The tide was low, and he kept walking out to sea. Soon he could no longer hear the little waves lapping on the shore. Or the priest chanting. He felt like he’d arrived in the middle of the ocean, where there would be no shore in sight, alone with his mother. The water had reached the base of the urn. He closed his eyes and tried to see Yami’s lanterns, to hear her song. The rhythm of the ocean guided him as he upended the urn.
The sun had yet to rise behind him, but the moon was nearly full and bright in the sky above. A faint lone star hovered close by. The shore was still there when he turned. Sometimes he and his mother had come to this beach to eat mango ice cream and walk along the shoreline, wade in its waters. Birendra knew it was because she had missed his father. He had missed him, too. He looked down at the water. There was still a film of ashes traveling across the ripples of its surface. There, it was done. His mother was free. Tomorrow he would go to Trivandrum.