Wave

by Sonali Deraniyagala

They’d squabble, trying to stretch a too-small mosquito net over two adjacent beds, and argue about how dark the room should be. Vik wanted some light, Malli did not. He’d say, “Don’t be scared, Vik. It’s good when it’s all really black. You can see your dreams better.”

“Nice, nice, Mal. What is it?” I asked him then, distractedly. “A man who lost his hands in a puddle,” he replied, not stopping to think.

“They didn’t say what time it happened, did they? They didn’t say what color the two boys were, maybe the boys were white, some other boys.”

Or I’d flick through his cricket magazine and say, “Wow, he’s handsome,” at a photo of Rahul Dravid. “Aw, who do you love, Mum, Dad or Dravid?” he’d admonish me, quick to look out for Steve, the king of dads.

By knowing them again, by gathering threads of our life, I am much less fractured. I am also less confused. I don’t constantly ask, Was I their mother? How can so much of my life not even seem like mine? I can recover myself better when I dare let in their light.

Now, in this house, I can bring my parents close. For six years I’ve pushed them and their death to the fringes of my heart. That’s all I could tolerate, my focus was on our boys and Steve. How hideous, that there should be a pecking order in my grief.