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Sarayu Srivatsa’s new novel, That Was, is a sweeping coming-of-age story, steeped in childhood memory

Sarayu Srivatsa’s new novel, That Was, is a sweeping coming-of-age story, steeped in childhood memory

It was a clear day, and the bushes on either side of the road trembled in the crisp wind. The shadows from the trees moved this way and that, and the stunning green meadows and dense forests of pine and fir climbed the slopes of the hills. The taxi drove past fruit orchards, apple, cherry, peach, apricot. ‘Lolab valley is known as the fruit bowl of Kashmir,’ my uncle said. He had come to Srinagar to attend a trade meeting, and I had gone with him, and we were now on our way to Reshwari, a small village close to the border.

We stopped to have namkeen chai. I picked walnuts that had fallen from the tree, and my uncle bought three bunches of wildflowers from an elderly woman whose skin was creased and crinkled. ‘In half an hour, we will reach Reshwari,’ my uncle said, ‘and then we have to go a little further to the most beautiful village along the Marwar River.’

The village was small, its houses nestled amidst pine trees on the slope; some of them merely ruins. It started to drizzle when we reached the top of the hill. From there, I could see the desiccated banks of the river gradually dampening. Further along, the market street ran parallel to the riverbank; it was rather large for so small a village. My uncle told me it had been the central market for a number of villages in the surrounding area. We walked on in the rain, finally stopping in front of an old house. It was mildewed and smelled bitter and stale. My uncle laid a bunch of flowers on the doorstep.

On impulse, I ran along the side of the house to the back, and there it was, the green window that wouldn’t shut. I could remember the scene vividly: Tasneem, Arun, and I scrambling inside through that window. We would spend many afternoons sharing old ghost stories or making up new ones.  One afternoon Arun told us a particularly ghastly story and Tasneem had cried with fear.

‘It’s only a story, Tasneem,’ Arun said. ‘Don’t cry.’

‘I’m not crying because of that,’ she said. ‘Baba says we have to move to Pakistan.’

I walked back to the front of the house. My uncle was sitting on the steps, his head held in his hands. A stray ray of sunlight was dancing in his hair — it shone golden. He looked up at me, and I sat beside him. ‘Arun told us this house was haunted,’ I said.

‘It was abandoned. The Muslim family who had lived here moved to Pakistan,’ my uncle said. ‘We used to live in a village similar to this along the border. I was twelve. In those days, I was used to the crackle of fire, the sound of dragging footsteps, rattling windowpanes, screams in the middle of the night. I can still remember burning houses, the smell of burnt bodies. People slept on their feet, leaning against walls, worried and scared that they would soon be uprooted, transplanted to another place.  Hindu families started moving from the village. We moved to this house. My father never got over the grief of leaving his village. He was wealthy and owned a lot of land, and he had lost everything. He was miserable and passed away six months later.’

He continued, ‘One day, two families — also from our village — came here with their belongings, not to visit but to stay. And each subsequent day brought yet more people. They looked tired. Not of the long journey or the suffering of such a journey, but something else entirely, their eyes seemed afraid, haunted. My mother turned our inner courtyard into a community kitchen. From the terrace, we watched pyramids of fire and thick black smoke curling into the sunlit sky. I saw groups of people carrying small bundles of luggage, and when I asked my mother about them, she said, “They’re fugees, Hindus from Pakistan, fugees.” She meant refugees. The next day, some of our neighbours in the village left their houses in the middle of the night. When I asked my mother why they had left, she said only, “They’re islims.” She meant Muslims.’

‘Where is your mother?’

‘She’s gone. An accident,’ is all he said. ‘After that, I moved to Bombay.’

I remembered what Meena-ma’s husband had said: that the country had gone mad.

We walked down the other side of the hill. My uncle stopped at a house blackened with soot and consumed by creepers. He laid the other bunch of flowers at its unhinged door. I watched as a colony of ants transported a grasshopper into a crack on the floor. I stooped down to rescue it then realised it was already dead, though its green colour remained vibrant. I turned away and looked up at the tall chinar tree nestled beside the gate, bereft of leaves; the apple tree up the hill was full of fruit.

‘Whose house is this?’ I asked, but my uncle didn’t reply, only sighed. The old willow tree seemed to sigh with him, and below us, the waters of the Marwar tinkled ceaselessly. A bird tumbled in the wind, drifting on taut wings. I remembered the wild pigeons cooing through the afternoon, the bats cheeping peevishly at night. I remembered the cacophony of crows when the stars swelled into the gentle dawn light that loomed across the night sky. I remembered the willow tree, the ants and bugs that scurried across its branches. The wind was different here — it was sharp and cold but moist, expansive, with arms to hold me. It had banged against the shutters, and the willow tree had groaned against the window. It could get fierce sometimes, the wind, but now, as it touched my skin, I remembered my mother’s saree on the clothesline billowing in the breeze, and with a slap, it fluttered inside out. I had loved that particular saree, the colour of ice. In the pit of my stomach, I felt a deep sadness knotted tight, it was sour, and it stung my eyes.




My uncle grasped my hand, and we walked down another path to a tar road that led to the market. A rickety truck carrying apples passed us, and I heard the sound of shoes as a mother, and her daughter, ran past us. She must have been five or six. I remembered my mother walking me to the market; she would buy me cotton candy, soft, sweet, pink.

The rain had stopped, and my uncle rested at a spot near the bus stop under a walnut tree with thick red-and-white stripes painted on its trunk. I had a vague memory of this place, a faded watercolour drawing. I remembered the bus driver who chewed betel leaf who would stop here, spit the paan juice at the tree, which had measles of red spots on its bark. There, next to a boulder at the side of the road, my uncle set down the remaining flowers.

‘What’s here?’ I asked.

‘Here is a moment I can never forget,’ my uncle said. He looked up at the chinar tree. ‘I planted this twenty years ago,’ he said, ‘it was just a sapling then. Look how tall it has grown.’ He sat beneath it and closed his eyes.

I walked down the road towards the market. There were grocery and vegetable shops, butchers, tanners, and utility stores. Off the street, in the shadowy alleys, were rows of shacks with piles strewn around: newspaper, cardboard boxes, glass bottles, and soot and grease stuck to everything. Even though it was still light, it was gloomy in these alleys. Houses with drowsy windows let in the breeze from the chinar trees.

I walked back to the wooden bridge that straddled the small canal of water. I watched a spider weaving one arc at a time, moving to and fro, to and fro. Now and then, it seemed to tremble, a string of dribble dropped from its mouth, and it tumbled from its web. I looked away. Further down, I saw a little girl crouched in the ditch; she was six years old. I remembered her. I had constructed borders in my mind to prevent her memories from tormenting me, but they had remained in the deep womb of my mind, had never really left, and when I looked deep into her eyes, I could see flecks of what she had seen all those years ago.

Excerpted from That Was by Sarayu Srivatsa (Platypus Press, UK; $22.00, pp. 208). The book releases on October 12. 

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