Amulya Malladi - A Breath of Fresh Air

Table of Contents

ABREATHOFFRESH AIRIS A GIFTFOR ALL OF US IN THESE COMPLICATED TIMES....

Amulya Malladis pure voice pulled me right into the heart of this tale of the Indian woman Anjali and her family. Her story made me nod my head in agreement, and grind my teeth in anger, and it broke my heart with its clear look at the consequences of our shared human imperfections and our attempts to rise above them.

NANCY THAYER, author of An Act of Love

A Breath of Fresh Air is a plainspoken reverie about love and destiny. A terrible accident gives the story a sense of lifes inexorable cruelty, but the brilliance and steadfastness of Malladis characters elevate them, and carry them beyond their tragic circumstances into a kind of fabulous Greek timelessness. The story of Anjalis star-crossed marriages zips the reader along, but although the book is a quick read, its also deep. This book is ostensibly about India, but really, it is about everywhere.

AMY WILENTZ, author of Martyrs Crossing

A portrait of modern Indian life that is complex, fraught with morals and customs that are in many cases outmoded and in all cases difficult to navigate.... Here again is an instance of a novelist taking what could be the humdrum details of family heartbreak and raising them to the level of clear-eyed, wellcrafted art.

St. Petersburg Times

Highly recommended... An intriguing story written in a simple and elegant style... Readers will look forward to more work from this promising writer.

Library Journal

Pleaseturnthepage formorereviews....

ABSORBING STUFF,

particularly Anjalis struggles as a contemporary woman in India.

Kirkus Reviews

[Malladi] writes with a restraint reminiscent of Anita Desai while busying herself with a supporting cast of bold characters.... The women, including Prakashs demanding second wife, are unswervingly strong and determined, completely believable.... [Malladi] has captured Anjalis plightand, by association, the wider emotional ramifications of a disaster such as Bhopalwith maturity and dignity. I challenge you not to shed a tear.

The Weekend Australian

The novel and its characters illuminate the duality of the contemporary Indian woman, as well as the hard choices all women must make.... [Malladi] highlights the human ability for forgiveness and perseverance along with the abiding power of love.

Abilene Reporter News

Malladis writing style is unadorned and simple.... She sketches some remarkable women.

San Francisco Gate

In this accomplished debut novel, Malladi depicts believable and well-defined characters facing tumultuous circumstances with grace and sensitivity, passion and pride.

Booklist

For Sren

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I will always be indebted to my amazing agent, Milly Marmur, who had more faith and patience than I. My sincere thanks to Anika Streitfeld for her insight and to Amandeep Singh and Jody Pryor for their unstinting support. I cant thank Mamta Puri enough for her help in writing this book and Dhruv Puri for letting his mother speak with me on the telephone for hours. My thanks also to Arjun for his unswerving friendship and encouragement.

PROLOGUE

ANJALI

DECEMBER 3, 1984 BHOPAL RAILWAY STATION BHOPAL, INDIA

I waited patiently for the first hour, and then I started to get impatient. The Bhopal Railway Station was abuzz with late-night activities. The homeless were wandering, begging for money and food; some people were waiting for their train to arrive and others, like me, were waiting for someone to pick them up, as the hands of the big dirty clock in front of me came together to welcome midnight.

I turned my wrist again to look at the watch my husband had given me after our wedding just a few months ago. It was a nice Titan watch, with a green background and red numbers and hands. It was a compulsive action to look at the watch, since I already knew what the time was.

Why wasnt he here? He knew when I was getting back. He had bought the tickets himself. How could he have forgotten?

Soon the homeless stopped begging and started looking for places to settle in for the night. The Station Master used a long, thick wooden stick to prod the homeless, who were sleeping in front of his office and the waiting rooms, into moving. He was successful with some and unsuccessful with others. He looked at me curiously and then ignored me. He had probably seen many women wait for their husbands or loved ones at the railway station.

I flipped once again through the Femina magazine I had bought at the Hyderabad Railway Station. By now I had read all the articles and the short story, and the advertisements, but I looked through them once more to avoid staring at the dirty white clock or my beautiful watch.

Memsaab, taxi? a Sardarji taxi driver asked me.

I inched farther back into the metal chair I was sitting on, grasping my purse tightly in my lap and moving my sari-clad leg to touch my small suitcase in a subconscious effort to protect it.

No, I said, and focused on the slightly crumpled pages of my magazine.

Late in the night it is now, Memsaab. Sardarji was undeterred by my casual refusal. Not safe it is at the station.

I let the fear of being accosted late in the night pass first. My husband would be here soon, I told myself. I thought up an excuse: His scooter must have broken down. I thought up another: The tire must have been punctured. It happened all the time on the bad roads of Bhopal.

Where do you have to go? Sardarji asked me.

I took a deep breath and looked at him. He didnt look dangerous in the dim yellow lights of the railway station, but you can never tell by someones face what he is capable of.

Bairagarh, I said succinctly, and he moved away from me without comment. The EME Center was in Bairagarh and if I lived there, I was an army wife, and he probably didnt want to mess with me.

I kept time with my shifting feet and the rustle of the oft-turned pages of the magazine, pages that didnt look brand-new and glossy anymore, but were wrinkled like the ones roadside peanut vendors wrapped fried peanuts in. My eyes wandered to the entrance of the station, again and again looking for a familiar face.

I didnt even know how to get in touch with my husband we didnt have a phone. Colonel Shukla did. I could call him, I thought, and then decided against it. How would it look if people knew my husband forgot to pick me up?

I turned my head when there was a small commotion at the other end of the station, and it started then. Slowly, but surely, it spread.

I became aware of it for the first time when I inhaled and felt my lungs being scratched by nails from the inside, like someone had thrown red chili powder into my nose. I took another breath and it didnt change. I clasped my throat and closed my eyes as they started to burn and water. Something was wrong, my mind screamed wildly as I, along with the others, tried to seek a reason for the tainted air we were breathing.

Sardarji, who was standing nearby, looked at me, our eyes matching the panic that was spreading through the railway station. The homeless had started gathering their meager belongings, while others were standing up, moving, looking around, asking questions, trying to find out what could be done. Soon it became unbearable and the exodus began. People started to clamor to get out of the station. The entrance was jam-packed; heaving bodies slammed against each other as they tried to squeeze past the small entrance to save their lives. Some people jumped across the tracks to get to the other platform and look for an exit from there. People were everywhere, like scrounging ants looking for food.