Roy - Sleeping on Jupiter

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by

MacLehose Press
An imprint of Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ

Copyright 2015 by Anuradha Roy

The moral right of Anuradha Roy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 84866 689 4
Print ISBN 978 0 85705 346 6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Also by Anuradha Roy

An Atlas of Impossible Longing (2008)

The Folded Earth (2011)

Would a circling surface vulture
know such depths of sky
as the moon would know?

AKKA MAHADEVI, 12th century

for three beloved tyrants

Biscoot

Rukun

Christopher

Before the First Day

The year the war came closer I was six or seven and it did not matter to me. I lived with my brother, father and mother and our hut had two rooms with mats on the floor and a line of wooden pegs from which our clothes hung and in the evening we sat in the yard outside, watching our mother cook on the fire by the grapefruit tree. When the tree flowered I opened my mouth wide to swallow the scent. Little green beads of fruit appeared when the flowers fell off. One day, when some of the fruit had turned as round and yellow as full moons, my brother climbed the tree. He looked tall and strong clambering from branch to branch, my older brother. I stood holding the trunk, waiting for the fruit to come down. He snapped them off the stem, the branch shook hard, and I was showered with dust and dry leaves.

The grapefruits were pale yellow outside, with stippled skin. They were as big as melons and heavy with juice. My mother slid a knife into one and cut it in half and the flesh was pink and the smell of its juice was tart and fresh.

Our hut was all we knew, the four of us. I remember a fence around it, made of branches my father cut and brought home on his shoulders a few at a time, every day. The jungle was thick, the leaves of the tall trees were broad and green. I have tried to remember which trees they were, but I can only bring back the ones that gave me things to eat: mangoes, grapefruit, jackfruit and lime. We had hens that went mad cackling and crowing when they were laying eggs. Their eggs were brown. We had a cow, a few goats, and three pigs.

When the pigs were slaughtered for their meat they shrieked with a sound that made my teeth fall off and this was the sound I heard soon after my mother cut the grapefruit, and the men came in with axes. Their faces were wrapped in cloth. They shoved my brother outside, they pushed my mother and me to a corner of the room and then they flung my father at a wall. They slammed his face at the wall again and again. The whitewashed wall streamed red, they threw him to the floor and kicked him with their booted feet. Each time the boots hit him it was as if a limp bundle of clothes was being tossed this way and that. One of the men lifted an axe and brought it down on my fathers forehead.

When they left they wrote something on the wall in his blood. They did not look at us.

In my sleep I hear the sound of pigs at slaughter, the sound my father made.

The next thing was a clump of bushes by a ditch. My mother was hiding me in the bushes. Smoke rose from the place our village was not the smoke of cooking fires but a kind I had never seen before. It made the blue sky black and stilled the birds. There was not a sound. I started to shout for my brother, but my mother put her palm over my mouth. If only she hadnt stopped me. He always came when I called and he always knew what to do.

I was walking after that, as fast as I could, but still my mother kept pulling at my hand and dragging me, saying, Faster, faster. Then she picked me up and I was on her back and my arms were wrapped around her. She ran through the jungle. My legs straddled her waist, my head reached her shoulders, but I could not look beyond. Her hair pricked my eyes, it was sticky with sweat and dirt. Her feet were bare. She stopped to pluck thorns from them and once she stopped to tear off a strip from her sari and wrap it around her foot when a stone gashed it. If I asked for my brother she said, Quiet, not a word.

My mothers face was fierce. She had thick, straight eyebrows and she wore a nose pin that sparkled like a star. Her palm felt rough and hard when it slapped my cheek and when it rubbed oil into me before a bath. Although I scrape and scrape at my mind, there is not much else I can bring back.

We rested, we slept once or twice, then she hoisted me onto her back and walked again. It was for a day or maybe it was for two, and all of a sudden the leaves fell away, the ground grew soft, everything opened out and the ocean was before us. I had never seen the sea or sand. I ran towards the water. My mother came after me and held me back, but she let me paddle at the edge of the water. Then I saw a man. He came up to her and said something. My mother drew me away from the water and made me sit in the shadow of a boat. Her sari was wet to her knees. She bent down and wrung it out at the bottom. They moved away from me, they spoke softly to each other. She came back. Wait here, she said, dont move. She returned to the man. Her voice thinned and flew in the breeze. And then she was gone.

The sun hung over the sea, looking as if it would fall into it anytime. The water was high, there was too much of it. Waves came like white-toothed monsters and bit off the sand. They came closer and closer. I kept looking at the place where my mother had stood with the man. I was hungry. I called for her. My stomach ached with hunger. I stood up and opened my mouth as wide as I could and I shouted for my brother. Nobody.

When it was almost dark, two women appeared. They tried to take me away from the boat. I kept telling them my mother had told me to wait. One woman tugged at me. I shouted and struggled, my feet dragged in the sand, and she said, Quiet! She picked me up. The other woman forced water from a bottle into my mouth. They were taking me to my mother, she said. It would not be long.

I think it was the next morning that they put me into a van. There were other girls in the van, some smaller than me, some bigger. The van drove until it reached a town. There was a house in the town, painted pink and blue. It had a room with straw mats on the floor where we slept. We were given boiled rice to eat. The rice was red in colour instead of white. The grains were fat and chewy. I had never eaten rice like that. There was one girl who would not eat and she cried all the time. After a few days the women who fed us put that girl and her bedding out in the verandah for the night. Her wailing could still be heard inside, but not so loud, and we could all sleep. The next morning when the women went to get her from the verandah she was no longer there.