A Bottle of Water
Vikram K. Sundaram
There was no wind. Just the immensity of water, like nothing Venkat had ever heard: every second hundreds of thousands of arrows loosed from the sky, slicing the air, rattling the shield of the white van roof above him, piercing the Earth, striking the banana and palm trees, pummeling the fields of cane and wild grasses to either side of the dirt road. Venkat's eyes followed their tire tracks back to the narrow river they had crossed. Somehow in the chaos it managed a slow, unperturbed pace. Further out, peaking over the horizon, the Bay of Bengal bathed itself in the rains born of its own body, gathering its strength. Venkat and his older sisters learned to swim when they were young. Not his mother, and certainly not his father, who wouldn't even dip his feet at the shore. A family friend in the States had a young girl, two years younger than Venkat, who nearly drowned in a lake. It took her years to relearn how to use her legs. They weren't seen often at Temple or at family functions, and briefly if that, tentative together in their steps, as if the world were a sheet of ice covering the dark, ill-fated lake that ever lurked beneath, patient, still, and breathless.
Venkat couldn't help but feel nervous, even as his cousin Jagath absentmindedly tapped the steering wheel, humming to the Kuch Kuch Hota Hai CD on the stereo that only he could hear in the storm. He'd wanted Venkat to join him up front in the passenger seat, but Venkat mumbled an excuse about being tired as he slid into the cramped third row. In the second row, Venkat's father nodded, half asleep, while Thāthā stared out at the drowning land. India didn't hate Venkat. Still, there was no fondness. Small slights here and there, jetlag, lost luggage, complaints to go home early, capped by a long fever-dream induced by bad prawn masala when he was eight. Before he knew it, the gentle, restorative stream that should have been Venkat's relationship with his parents' homeland had rapidly foamed white, treacherous rocks breaking the surface, a snake baring fangs. Maybe, Venkat wondered, he had brought this land's ire upon himself. His parents, when they were young immigrants to the States, were more concerned that their future children learn English than Tamil. Venkat's older sisters, sharp with words, had picked up just enough to manage conversation with relatives. Venkat spoke English and dropped out of high school Spanish. What few Tamil words he grasped would catch in his throat like small fish struggling in a net. He was quickly overwhelmed in the deluge of conversation among cousins, uncles and aunties. Deaf and mute, submerged in the opaque music of inaccessible tongues, Venkat would nod and smile before wandering off to quieter rooms, delving into books with his headphones on. His bitter contempt, a small moat at first but now massive and turbulent as the Atlantic, helped him justify why he knew nothing about his parents' families or their lives. But families gossip. India had clearly heard enough to brand him an insufferable asshole, and now it was monsoon season.
At his mother's prodding, he'd downloaded a Tamil translation app on his new smartphone (part gift from his father for improved grades in his second year at college, part bribe to lure Venkat away with him to India for summer break). As he expected, the app couldn't help him. He was struggling to tread against the undertow of the language's grammar, tiring of the rapid, insistent spouting of verbiage and ever-rising tone that he couldn't distinguish even with multiple replays. Reading was no better. The letters were indecipherable, twisting and curling, dark and tangled as seaweed on a beach at dawn. He knew the basics: அம்மா, Am'mā, mother; அப்பா, Appā, father; பாட்டி, Pāṭṭi, grandmother; தாத்தா, Thāthā, grandfather. The uyir, the vowels, were the soul, and the mey, the consonants, were the body. Deities and adult humans were uyartiṇai, high class; animals and children were aḵṟiṇai, low class. A powerful sheet of rain slammed against the van roof. The shock of noise startled him, and he lost his place. Before the storm hit, they had stopped to get his father masala tea from a vendor parked beneath a beach umbrella. As the vendor dipped a long white muslin cloth into the steaming pot, some girls in school uniform walked by. Unsmiling, they stared at Venkat's wrinkled Nirvana t-shirt (the band, not the state of eternal bliss). Some distance away, they broke down into giggles and whispered to each other in Tamil. Venkat looked at his sneakers, trying not to blush, as Jagath poked him, smiling: "They know you're American." Pōrum, enough, Venkat sighed, recalling the slights, and closed the app.
Venkat looked up at the back of Thāthā's head, speckled with thin gray hairs. He was in his 90s. Exactly how old was anyone's guess; his original birth certificate was damaged when the village clinic collapsed in a mudslide and his memories were fading. Lately, his losses had become precipitous. Some days, Thāthā barely recognized his daughter, in whose house he lived, or Jagath, who helped care for him. He'd grown fearful recently -- an utterly new emotion for him -- and from those grey pools sprouted stinging rebukes and violent outbursts. Strapped to a chair to prevent falls, the room he possessed seemed dark even with the curtains drawn back. As a young man in black and white photos, he stood straight and tall. These days, the length of his spine curved against his thin white cotton shirt, the mighty tree of his body beaten into a bow by ceaseless ocean-born gales. He wore the same thick black frames, but no one had checked the prescription in years. It was unclear if he would even recognize Venkat or Venkat's father. They’d come to him regardless. The plan was to bring him to their old home in Trivandrum where Venkat's father would stay with Thāthā as long as he could afford or tolerate. Despite their doubts, Venkat's father hoped he could guide Thāthā to solid ground, to a peaceful, predictable routine, to some comfort before he slipped further and forever away.
Fields of wild grass bent in waves through the streaks of the van’s window. Then the waves began to part. A figure appeared from beyond the tree line in the distance and marched through the grasses. Venkat squinted, incredulous. The sheets of rain alternately obscured and magnified a vision of a man, elderly and balding. What hair he had was bushy and grey. Three thick lines of white ash ran horizontally on his forehead, bisected by the punctuation of a vertical red mark. A yogi? Venkat wondered. His thin brown chest was bare save for an off-white dhoti slung over his long, straight neck. A matching veshti with yellow trim wrapped loosely around his waist and legs. Gaze fixed ahead, he strode closer to the van, then changed direction at the field's center, facing north. Now with his side to the window, Venkat made out a thin object trailing behind the yogi. It looked like a brown snake, but limp, moving forward in rhythmic spasms. Venkat traced the creature from the ground up to the man's upper back, and then noticed that a noose wrapped twice around the yogi's neck: it was a rope.
Unnerved, Venkat pressed his nose to the glass and held his breath to clear the fog. But the longer he looked, the less he trusted what he was seeing. Despite the monsoon's fury, not a drop of water clung to the yogi's body. The cotton of his dhoti was crisp, as if it had just been steam ironed. His hair could have been used for kindling. He wasn't blinking. Only his mouth moved, thick beard bobbing up and down, chanting to the universe. There was a faint glow by his chest, where his hands were cupped. He held a brass diya, not unlike the one in the shrine in Venkat's family's home. In the diya stood a flame, small but straight, unwavering, spared by the torrents.
Venkat turned to see if anyone else had noticed the impossible yogi, but Jagath was engrossed in his phone, and Venkat's father was snoring. He tried to call out, but the storm drowned out his voice.
He took out his smartphone to take a picture as proof. He managed a shot, but before he could check the quality, someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked. It was Thāthā, pulling Venkat out of the way with shocking strength. Venkat shrieked in pain as Thāthā lunged forward, pinning Venkat against the back of the seat. Thāthā started banging on the window, shouting too fast for Venkat to understand anything, save the words "taṇṇīr" -- water -- and "nati" -- river. The window cracked, smeared with blood from Thāthā's palm. The commotion roused the rest of the family, and they struggled to free Venkat and restrain Thāthā. Venkat's father braved Thāthā's flailing hands, and began whispering in his ear: Appā, Appā!
Venkat was silent as his father yelled at him for doing whatever he must have done to set off Thāthā, who at last was sitting again, weeping softly, a baby blue quilt wrapped over his shoulders. The acrid odor of urine pervaded the van, wafting from the puddles in the crevices of Thāthā's seat. Venkat grimaced at the fresh scratches on his arms. Some strands of Venkat's hair lay at his feet, the roots tinged red. He peered back at the window, but the field was just a field, the rain was subsiding, and the yogi was gone.
◆◆◆
The monsoon had died away over the last hour of their drive and they could see in the distance their destination, the Mahabalipuram Shore Temple. Venkat’s attempts to explain what he had seen in the field has thus far been met with a heavy silence. When the restless, swollen waters of the Bay appeared in the distance, Venkat’s father began whispering in Tamil. "Dad, in English please," Venkat interrupted. Venkat's father waved his hand and started the story over, so that both Jagath and Venkat could understand:
I was five. One morning, two friends and I snuck off from my Pāṭṭi's house to play by the River Karamana. The riverbed was at the foot of a steep hill. Stone steps, centuries old, emerged from the river and led up to a small village Temple at the hilltop, carved of the same stone, dedicated to Lord Shiva. Beside the Temple was a field with dozens of naga statues leaning against the trunk and thick roots of a massive banyan tree. There was also a shrine nearby for Lord Varuna, mostly tended by the fishermen.
It had rained overnight, and the steps that morning were dark grey and half covered in damp moss. With no handrail, my friends went slowly. They weren't even partway down when I was already a few meters from the river. You smile, but I used to be like that, Venkat. The silt and mud gave the waters a deep golden tinge and a smell of ancient Earth. Small branches rushed by in the heavy current. I was near the bottom, just before the steps became submerged in the river. That's when I noticed across on the opposite bank one of the yogis who would sometimes visit the village. He was in his 70s, retired, I think he built bridges, and was a Brahmin like us. He was well liked, and traveled between villages to help conduct Sraddha. I had seen him on occasion before, but I remember that day he stood straight on the black rock flattened over ages by the river. I watched him greet the sun in the East with a Surya Namaskar: arms up, then body bending down at the waist, body flat, chest arched up like a cobra, one leg back, the other leg up, then standing again to start over, each movement paired with three slow breaths. His lithe body never strained, and he never lost his footing despite the rock being slick as the flat of a knife.
I heard shouting behind me. I turned to see my friends waving, still far up the stairs. I waved back, but then saw why they were shouting. As if emerging from the moss on the stone, a viper uncoiled toward me, its long, muscular body glistening dark green. I screamed and took a step back straight into the river. To my surprise, the water was hot, like fresh milk. I clung with one hand to the stone above me, but my fingers were slipping. I called out to my friends, but couldn't see or hear them. The water rose, strengthening its embrace. I called out to Am'mā and Appā. There was no answer, save the snake slithering closer, tongue flickering.
I felt a hard blow to my neck. A large branch swept along the bank to dislodge me, and I plunged into the Karamana. The water burned down my throat and roared in my ears, and then all was silence.
I didn't even think to pray, I was so full of panic. But in my heart, I must have. Or else, there would be no story to tell, nor would you, Venkat, be here to hear it.
From the darkness, I woke up coughing, spitting water, sobbing, my whole body aching. As I opened my eyes, a man smiled down at me, his head blocking the gentle light of the sun. "Appā...?" I asked. He felt strong like my father. But then his face softened into that of the yogi. Though not quite. His eyes were the same, but his skin was less cracked and wrinkled, his arms muscled as the young fishermen of the village. I felt safe, but then I looked down and saw that he was standing knee deep in the rushing river! In my confusion I began to struggle, but the yogi kept a firm grip. As I calmed, I looked down and watched as the raging waters approached him only to slow and part, swirling gently around him, as if we were in the eye of a cyclone, before meeting and churning with fury behind us. How deep the river's awe and prostration must have been.
I was as muddy as he was clean. And yes. He, too, was completely dry. Untouched by the humbled river. He chanted a prayer in Sanskrit I had never heard before. The bell tones of his voice soothed me. As I watched his lips move, I saw a thin shadow rise above his head and curl down toward my face, hissing. I shuddered, until the man smiled at me, and said (I'll translate it): my friend was trying to help you; do not fear; you are safe for now.
He carried me back to the Temple. I had no strength to sit up in the courtyard, and passed out again. That's where my father found me, clutching me more furiously than the river. Wordless, he walked me home, the pace slow so I could keep up. Every now and then I winced on hearing a crack from the riverbed as the Karmana claimed more dead wood. Once, I stumbled to the wet ground, but my father simply waited for me to get up again. I lay on my knees, quivering, hoping the yogi would appear. I still felt the waters around me. I still needed to be rescued. But he never came, and in fact I never laid eyes upon him again.
In the village I stopped by Pāṭṭi's house, but my father grunted and tugged my arm to keep going. We went another mile to where my father lived. He brought me out back by his canoe, dark wood sparkling with dew. Whenever he could, my father would head out alone and paddle eighteen miles out until the river opened into the ocean. The ocean is too rough for most people to swim, but it seemed the only way for my father to soothe himself when his mind was troubled. And he went often. I trembled as he reached for the long wooden oar, and raised it above his head, glaring at me. He brought it down and snapped it in two on the canoe, then with the thin end proceeded to beat me on my back and legs. Afterwards, he brought out a bucket, washed away the mud, tended to the scratches and bruises, and told me to never go in the water without him.
The next week we moved to Chennai. My father left the broken canoe behind. He would swim in the ocean some days. But rivers? Never a river.
◆◆◆
"But Venkat, what could you have really seen if he was that far out, and with all the rain and wind?" Jagath asked as he pulled over to park the van. The single blurry photo had not convinced him. The outline of the yogi was obscured, and Jagath argued the flame looked like the phone's camera flash.
"Why would I lie? Why would my father?"
"Well, I mean," Jagath paused, looking over at Venkat's father, then back down to the steering wheel, "Clearly you were rescued, Raja Uncle. And, I believe that a child would have lots of strange memories after almost drowning. Raja Uncle?"
Venkat's father said nothing in response.
They all looked to Thāthā as he moaned softly. Then he too was quiet.
There was no point in continuing, Venkat realized. Jagath broke the silence as he opened his door, then slid open the passenger side to undo Thāthā's seat belt and safety strap. But Thāthā again began to struggle and spit.
"Jagath, stop," Venkat's father said. "Go make sure the steps are dry before we bring Thāthā. If it's not safe, we three will go one at a time."
As Jagath jogged off to the Temple, Venkat leaned toward his father.
"Dad?"
Venkat's father opened his door, his head turned away from his son. "Let's just forget about it. It's true, what Jagath said. A story is as real as you want it to be." He slammed the door shut before Venkat could respond, and strode off toward the Bay.
Venkat looked over at Thāthā. The dome of his scalp was beaded with sweat. Venkat's head still throbbed, so he shifted away from Thāthā and took out his phone. A notification from the Tamil translation app popped onto the screen. "Log in for your reward: mūṉṟu (3) days in a row!" Venkat closed it. Minutes passed, the air quickly warming with the A/C off. Venkat cracked open the door on his side, but the air outside was somehow more oppressive. He reached back into the trunk to grab a water bottle, when Thāthā again began banging his bandaged hands on the window. He'd done it a few more times on the drive, but was progressively less forceful in his strikes each time. By now they'd all tacitly agreed to let him be, reasoning that it was less painful to just let him get it out of his system.
As Venkat twisted off the cap to the water bottle, he noticed that Thāthā had fallen silent, as if meditating, or maybe he was asleep. Actually, he stopped moving entirely. Panicking, Venkat scrambled over to check that he was still breathing. He was, thankfully. His eyes were open behind the thick frames, lingering on something outside, but then wandering, and then lost. Venkat looked out the window and saw a man striding slowly toward the van. Bare chest, tilaka bands painted on the forehead, vesti, dhoti, the diya flame alight. Noose around his neck.
Venkat found himself outside the van, running towards the yogi. He wasn't sure what he was doing. What would he say, even if he could say it in Tamil? Oh yogi, why were you in that field during a fearsome monsoon? How did you stay bone dry? Do you know my father, who nearly drowned in a river in Kerala over fifty years ago?
As if sensing Venkat's trepidation, the yogi raised one hand, and they both paused. Venkat was close enough to touch the yogi. Venkat stood a foot taller, but he felt smaller. Breathing heavily, Venkat clasped his hands together to bow in greeting. To his horror, water spilled from the open bottle he forgot he was holding, and splashed onto the diya before puddling on the ground and their bare feet. The flame flickered, then became still, and then grew brighter. Venkat's mind went blank, and after a few moments, head still bowed, he said the only non-English word he could think of: Om. He felt stupid. He said it like a non-native speaker, oh-m, rather than a-ou-m. He could have said namaste, or nothing, he chided himself, but it was already done.
The yogi smiled, to Venkat's relief, and returned the bow. Still holding the diya in his right hand, he reached out with his left to gently slip the water bottle from Venkat's grasp. He then brushed past Venkat to continue up the path, toward the van. Venkat turned and saw Thāthā standing outside the van, straight as Lord Shiva himself, proud and powerful. He was smiling, his eyes clear and gentle, as if looking at a long absent friend.
The rope traced a subtle curve in the dirt behind the yogi as Venkat followed. He took out his smartphone, but it wouldn't turn on. The back was loose; before he could stop it, the battery and memory card popped out and fell to the ground. The yogi now stood in front of Thāthā. Thāthā lunged forward, arm outstretched. Dropping the phone, Venkat raced to them, fearing that Thāthā might strike the yogi. Instead, Thāthā placed his hand on the yogi's shoulder, then bent down to gather a pinch of dust. With the grace of a ritual, he sprinkled the dust into the yogi's open bottle. The yogi handed him the bottle, then dripped in a small amount of ghee from the diya. The yogi sealed the bottle with his palm, and Thāthā inverted the bottle a few times, mixing the concoction. Thāthā took a deep swig, then poured the cloudy solution into the yogi's mouth. Thāthā turned to Venkat, nodded, and handed him what remained. Venkat inspected the bottle, froth and dirt and liquid butter swirling at the bottom. Feeling the expectant pairs of eyes on him, he took a deep breath and finished what remained.
The grit coated his tongue. The liquid, ghee and backwash ran down his throat, burning. Venkat coughed, shuddered, then inhaled deeply. A warmth expanded in his chest and belly, followed by a sudden weightlessness, as if he could have jumped on top of the van with a single leap if he'd tried. Venkat felt more awake than ever before. He could see Jagath all the way by the Temple steps, texting on his phone, letting his parents know that they'd reached their destination safely. He could hear his father's footsteps in the distant sand, sullen and heavy. Two girls in school uniform walked home together, lunchboxes in hand. He smelled dark masala tea, smoky in his nose, bitter on his tongue. Algae bloomed in the Bay, effervescent, popping like little bubbles. The Earth breathed beneath him. The air was full of whispers. He felt the subtle pull of himself toward all things, and sensed the gravity that pulled all things toward himself. He felt his blood, a multiplicitous river pulsing in his body; he felt his fat and sugar burning into energy in the muscles of his feet and ankles; he felt the tridents of lightning sweeping up and down his spine. He realized that Thāthā and the yogi were speaking to each other, and even though every word was in Tamil, Venkat understood exactly what they were saying.
"What's happening?" Venkat asked aloud, the words in Tamil rolling off his tongue.
"Venkat, my child," said the yogi and Thāthā in unison. Then Thāthā alone continued. "I'm glad to see you so clearly. You are beautiful, Venkat." Turning to the yogi, Thāthā said, "I am grateful to be with you again as well, Lord. I'm here, and I'm still there, the day my little Raja was nearly swept away. I'm running to the river and I meet you on those black, slippery rocks. I'm about to dive in after Raja before you stop me, slow my mind, and I pray first, to ask for your guidance."
The yogi smiled, "I was grateful. In that moment I was one with Lord Varuna, and we were happy to give you strength. I am only sorry that Karamana was so wrathful, so stubborn. It would not allow the nagas to approach. The river struck fear into your son, before striking him with that branch and attempting to take him from you."
"Who can say why these things happen," Thāthā responded.
"I slept for many days and nights after that, and was born to a new body when I awoke again. I am glad to see your son is healthy."
Thāthā sighed. "He is fearful, still. I wish I could take that from him, but it lies deep, coursing within tunnels of submerged rock." Thāthā paused and turned toward Venkat. "His heart was frozen when I pulled him from the river. His mind was silent as the end and beginning. Even in my arms, he was drowning. I breathed into him, but nothing could bring him back to me. At last, I prayed to Lord Shiva, and I prayed to you, Lord Varuna, not realizing you were still with me until the viper approached. What will you lose, to retrieve him? I felt you say. For my son to return, I didn't care to consider the consequences. I lost my peace with the rivers, but mercifully not the oceans. And, at last, here I am, barely here, except for flashes, except for the pain, the days and nights rushing into me, a vortex of voices, faces, visions, sweeping over me, choking me, dragging me down as I struggle, as if every moment I were drowning in his place; so be it. Venkat, do not fear. You only drank a little, so you'll return soon, and you'll lose very little."
"Return?" Venkat started, but Thāthā pressed on.
"My mind will only be calm for a little while longer. Please bring Raja to me. Go!"
Venkat hesitated, but then turned to find his father. He was still floating, but the feeling was beginning to dissipate. He tried to ignore the thousands of grains of sand individually sliding along the soles of his bare feet. "Dad!" Venkat screamed as he approached the shore.
His father spun around. "Venkat, what are you doing, leaving Thāthā on his own? Go back!"
"Dad, Thāthā needs to see you," Venkat replied, in English. "He's calling for you."
A look of fear passed over Venkat's father. Venkat saw it. Maroon waves emanated from his father's body and passed over Venkat, howling, smelling of iron. Venkat felt a sharp twisting in his stomach. Bile burned in his chest. His legs buckled. Reaching deep within himself, he coughed and spit a few drops of blood, and whispered, "Avarukku uṅkaḷ tēvai venam --- he needs you."
Venkat collapsed and watched, on his slow descent to the sand, his father's stomach unclenching and his heart softening, the maroon waves fading into sunlight. Pain left, and breath returned. The world crashed down on Venkat as he found himself back in his body. Imprinted on the sand, his father's hurried footprints led back toward the van, parallel to his own. Venkat was immobilized by a crushing headache. The light of the sun couldn't penetrate the darkness that enveloped him. Though the vision was less distinct, he could sense his father by the van, crying, hugging his father. Jagath was running towards them. The yogi, Lord Varuna, both satisfied, were too far away to detect. The noose curled around Thāthā's ankles, while the other end, dark green, slithered toward Venkat's father.
A few drops of water and specks of dirt clung to the plastic lip. Another vessel. He was a vessel. They were all vessels: cracked, leaking water, filled halfway, or most of the way, only to be emptied into the air, which was itself a greater vessel. Venkat's skin began to burn, but deep within was ice. He saw his father spreading Thāthā's ashes in the River Karamana, washing gently that day to the ocean. He saw his parents, back in the States, shivering as they climbed into a pool for a swim class. Venkat saw himself, offering a smattering of Tamil words and phrases, laughing with his sisters and cousins. Venkat saw himself, praying silently with his father at a corner of the Temple in New York. A chorus of waves approached Venkat, touching his feet. He felt he could stand again, if he wanted to. But he did not. He sat up, as the visions and memories began to fade, his mind and body giving back what he had borrowed.
He felt the tail end of the monsoon winds, whistling as they danced briefly in the open bottle before rushing home to the Bay, before sweeping the footprints away.
Vikram K. Sundaram is a writer and physician living in New York City. He studied fiction and poetry in college, and has had several poems published in online magazines, with subject matter often at the cultural crossroads of Western science and Eastern spirituality. Vikram has always had an interest in science fiction and fantasy, and recently has been focusing on writing fiction, including short stories, novellas, and novels.