Why is Mother on the floor? I wonder.
Don’t lie on the floor, Mother always says, the cold will creep into you. I wonder if this harms only six-year-old boys. With so many people in the room someone needs to remind Mother about cold, even with that rug under her and the white blanket that is almost hiding her face.
Uncle Kashi seems sad. He looks at me and tries to smile but his eyes are not the same.
I've never seen such a crowd at one time. Usually, there is Mother, me, Aaya, and the few guests who stay here in our lodge. Mother says Aaya has worked here since she was a little girl my age, even changed my diapers when I was a baby boy. From big cities I've never heard of, they come here to Coorg, sit outside in the mornings on the porch sipping ginger tea, scream happily at the birds that visit our yard, and take pictures with scary-looking cameras, sometimes asking Aaya and me to pose with their kids.
My hand is aching from Aaya holding it. She did not even let me enter Mother's room today. "She’s dead, Cheena," Aaya whispered even though there was no one around.
I want to ask everyone to let Mother get up and take me out, tell them that I've not seen a peacock this season and today might be the day, the skies sending little clues, frosted and slow like they might be holding rain.
The constant smell of incense and sandalwood is making me dizzy. I break away from Aaya’s grip, and run into the back woods. Little raindrops tumble down my nose. I close my eyes and think of Mother. And wonder what dead means. I've heard that before, just once, when Mother pointed to a chicken sticking out of its eggshell, unable to push farther. Its eyes were open. I hoped it would gather the power to come out once it became undead.
I know Mother has been ill for the past few days. Aaya told me Mother hasn’t slept well since Father left us. Maybe she’s tired.
Sudden voices stop me near the edge of the woods, close to the road. I recognize uncle Kashi; he heads a group around the curve, carrying Mother, still sleeping, on a wooden plank. I run behind them, but remain out of sight. They might send me back to Aaya.
I know this winding path well, where Mother and I have come a thousand times, holding hands, with her humming a soft tune. The next time I will tell her how soft her palm feels when she tugs at my forefinger and swings our hands playfully in a great arch.
The crowd is about to cross the hanging bridge. Mother always stops there and stares at the waterfall plunging down the rocks. I hope they will pause there. I feel sad when they don’t. The next time I'll make sure our stop here - just Mother and I - is longer, long enough for Mother to feel her energy return, to be glad not to have remained dead for long.
There is a flash of color in the woods. With hesitant steps, I follow the movement, and feel happy. There is pride in predicting that a peacock would finally show up today. Pride in knowing what the skies predict, in remembering little hints of nature that Mother talks about on our walks, my finger contented in her grip. I must remember to tell her how soft her hands are. She will giggle.
Ajay Vishwanathan is a three-time Best of The Net Anthology nominee. Ajay has work published or forthcoming in over eighty literary journals, including Smokelong Quarterly, The Minnesota Review, elimae, 34th Parallel, and The Potomac.