The departure blessings, as needed, are done. The cart arrives and is packed.

“Coffee?” Sivakami asks the in-laws, and Thangam catches her eye.

Gayatri laughs and winks at Mari. “Our girl’s become corrupt!” She means it as a joke, light-hearted.

Sivakami can’t rebuke her daughter in front of her in-laws; it would be a rebuke to them as well. But Thangam has never before drunk coffee. Mari whispers to Sivakami that she should not give her daughter any of the polluting drink, but Sivakami ignores her, thinking, I don’t have a daughter. Thangam is now someone else’s child.

Sivakami brings the coffee in flat-bottomed silver bowls and tumblers, with a half-inch lip around the top. Thangam accepts her coffee from her mother and begins pouring it, tumbler to bowl and bowl to tumbler, mixing from ever greater heights so that it curls and foams: caustic liquid gentled with sugar and milk, like a truth made palatable. Thangam relishes each tongueful as Sivakami watches her, imagining her in faraway places Sivakami will never see. Is Thangam drinking the coffee to postpone the moment of departure? Is she experimenting with this foreigners’ drink because she, too, is about to become a voyager?

When she is through, she and her in-laws take their leave. Thangam performs an obeisance for her mother, one her husband should have been there to do with her. Vairum stands to one side, watching woodenly. When Thangam rises, her eyes fill and she steps, almost jumps, suddenly toward her brother, putting her palm on his cheek. Vairum jerks his head as though to clamp her hand there, and then shakes her off. Thangam backs toward the cart, which her in-laws have already mounted. Once more, Sivakami has to shake off some petulance-so uncharitable!-at the sense that her children have an understanding that excludes her.

Muchami hovers until Thangam, too, is seated on a bench in back, then leaps up into the driver’s seat and flicks his switch. Little puffs of gold jolt from the side of the cart with each pothole and fall twirling in the sun to the thick dust of the road.

Sivakami turns to her son. “Our family grows smaller to grow bigger.”

He gazes at her skeptically. “I don’t see how you could have let her go with them.”

“You’re not talking sense,” she says, sounding sharp and liking it. “I didn’t ‘let’ her do anything. Her destiny is written by God and I am nothing but an executor.” She catches her breath against tears.

“If you’re not worried, you’re stupid. If you are worried, you should do something about it!” Vairum storms past her.

“What can I do about it, son? I am a widow.” She is shaking: how dare he speak so rudely to her?

“None of this would have happened if our father hadn’t died.” He stands at the bottom of the stairs and starts hitting his forehead with the heels of his hands. “My fault. It’s all my fault.”

Sivakami gapes. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

He stops and looks at her. “You think it too.” Then he runs up the stairs.

“I do not!” she says after him, and again, “I do not,” weakly. She can’t bring herself to follow. What can she say?

When he comes down, hours later, for his meal, she still has not thought of a way to broach the subject. She has been able to think of nothing but their exchange, but can’t think beyond what he said. She serves him silently. While he is eating, she says gently, “It’s no one’s fault, Kanna. Or, that is, it’s my fault, of course, I’m the wife, and if I…”

She is foundering, but Vairum excuses her. “Don’t talk about it, Amma. Forget it.”

She obeys, with uneasy relief, and they go about the routines of their days until they establish, in Thangam’s wake, new rhythms not unlike the old.

16. Another Coming of Age 1914

WHILE MARI HAS BEEN WORKING at Sivakami’s house and still living at her mother’s, she has passed her fourteenth, then fifteenth, then sixteenth birthday, but she has not yet gotten her period. It does happen, sometimes, everyone knows of such cases. It doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with her, but Muchami’s mother has spent these years glaring at her brother and sister-in-law and making comments: She should have had several grandsons from her son by now. Maybe there’s something really wrong with the girl. Maybe her brother has known all along. She might be within her rights to demand another dowry.

But neither Mari nor Muchami has shown any impatience or desire for the situation to alter. Mari works right alongside her husband at times, serves his meals, hears his problems and goes home each evening to her own mother’s house.

“How can Mari not be frustrated?” Angamma frequently demands of him. He shrugs and sucks his teeth; she jabs her hand at him. “How can you not be frustrated?”

Finally, when Mari is well past her seventeenth birthday, the miracle occurs. All are surprised, though her parents would never admit that. She’s been obediently taking herbal doses and douches for years. They throw a big celebration. Mari herself insists on staying away not only from the temple, but, Brahminically, from all of the guests. Her family finds these pretensions insufferable. But that’s Angamma’s problem now!

No one has worries like Muchami, though. For most young men, a bride’s coming of age announces imminent delights. For Muchami, it represents terror sheer as a veil or a cliff. Most young men would be thrilled to receive a wife after so long, even a thin one like Mari. Muchami gets tenser and tenser.

On the day of Mari’s procession from the house of her childhood to the new phase of her life, Muchami disappears again. No one is alarmed, really. All understand this cannot be easy for him, so let him live out his fears alone for a day. Though it would be nice for him to welcome his bride, he has to come home at some point and needn’t be present for the ceremonies.

Just as the procession is concluding in a great swirling of vermilion water and tossing of flowers, a naked panic of five young boys come running from the eucalyptus woods, shouting and crying, “Muchami! Muchami!” Out of deference to Muchami’s mother and his uncles, no one answers them. They yank the adults’ arms, wailing, “Muchami! Muchami!” and are ignored, until one child’s mother notices her son’s hair is wet. She clamps his shoulder, shakes him and yells, “You’ve been swimming, haven’t you? Huh?” He puts his thumb in his mouth and refuses to look at her, but the other boys are still weeping and shouting. Muchami’s youngest uncle has a dreadful premonition. He tears away from the crowd and runs toward the river. One by one, the uncles are swept by dread and peel from the crowd, running.

Angamma stops swirling the arathi and watches them go. The lip of the brass plate droops until she looks down and sees the vermilion water has all spilled and is running along the ground toward the river. She cries out and drops to her knees, but the water has soaked into the earth. She wipes her hands across the red-veined dust and whimpers. She hurries after her brothers.

The youngest uncle wades out into the Kaveri. Muchami, whose body moves like a river weed in the current, is anchored by an arm stuck in a crevice of rock creeping out from the opposite bank. Red radiates from his head in a pump and slap that could be caused by the water or his heart. His eyelids are purple and swollen shut.

The uncle is up to his shoulders in the deadly water, unconscious of risk, when an undertow sweeps him down and away. He fights, as he did as a boy, when the river was forbidden to him as it is to his sons now. He wrestles the river and finds the opposite bank. His brothers, one by one, do the same, except the eldest, who runs puffing to the bridge and crosses there. He arrives as his brothers are climbing out upon the stones, their hearts in their mouths. They free their nephew from the clutch of rocks, lift him from his pale ruby halo, press him to their chests and lay him on the riverbank.