“Do you want to hear a story?”
Poornima nodded.
“What kind of story?”
“You’re the one who asked.”
“All right, but an old story or a new one?”
“A new one.”
“Why?”
Poornima thought for a moment. Savitha’s lap was warm, though a little uneven, like sleeping on a lumpy bed. “Because I’m sick of old things. Like Ramayya. And this hut.” She raised her hand to her face, the cut still open on her palm. Curved, like a clay pot. “I want something new.”
“In that case, once upon a time,” Savitha began, “though not very long ago, since you want a new story—once upon a time, an elephant and the rain had an argument. The elephant was proud. It walked proudly around the forest. It ate whatever it wanted, reaching high into the trees, scaring away all the other animals. It was so proud that one day the elephant looked up, saw the rain, and declared, ‘I don’t need you. You don’t nourish me. I don’t need you at all.’ The rain, after hearing this, looked sadly back at the elephant and said, ‘I will go away, and then you will see.’ So the rain went away. The elephant watched it go and had an idea. He saw a nearby lagoon filled with water and he knew that without rain, it would soon dry up.” Here, Savitha stopped. Poornima lifted her head from her lap and sat up.
“So what was it? What was his idea?” Poornima asked.
Savitha turned to face her. She smiled. “The elephant, you see, saw a poor old crow walking along the forest path, looking for grubs, and ordered him to guard the lagoon. ‘Only I may drink from the lagoon,’ he told the crow. So the old crow sat and sat and guarded the lagoon. Eventually there came a monkey and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’ The monkey shook its head and went away.
“Then came a hyena and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’
“Along came a cobra and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’
“Then came a jungle cat and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’
“Then came a bear and a crocodile and a deer. They all asked for water and the old crow always gave the same answer. Finally, there came a lion. The lion said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’ When the lion heard this he roared; he grabbed the poor crow by the neck and beat him. Then he took a long, refreshing drink from the lagoon and walked away into the forest.
“When the elephant returned, he saw that the lagoon had dried up. ‘Crow,’ he said, ‘Where is the water?’ The old crow looked down sadly and said, ‘Lion drank it.’ The elephant was enraged. He said angrily, ‘I told you not to let anybody else drink from the lagoon. As punishment, shall I chew you up, or simply swallow you whole?’
“‘Swallow me whole, if you please,’ the crow said.
“So the elephant swallowed the crow. But once the crow entered the elephant’s body, the crow—our little crow—tore at the elephant’s liver and kidneys and heart until the elephant died, writhing in pain. Then the crow simply emerged from the elephant’s body and walked away.”
Savitha was silent.
Poornima looked at her. “What about the rain?” she said.
“The rain?”
“Did it come back? Did it fill the lagoon again?”
“The rain doesn’t matter.”
“No?”
“No.”
“But what about—”
“That doesn’t matter either.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No,” Savitha said. “Here’s what matters. Understand this, Poornima: that it’s better to be swallowed whole than in pieces. Only then can you win. No elephant can be too big. Only then no elephant can do you harm.”
They grew silent.
Savitha went back to her loom, and Poornima, washing up after lunch, looked at the wound on her hand, open again now from scrubbing dishes, and she thought about her father, she thought about the old crow, and then she thought, Please, Nanna. If you swallow me, swallow me whole.
6
Savitha began working longer hours. She was fast, but orders for the wedding season were even larger than expected. She came in early in the morning and left late at night, working harder than any man Poornima’s father had known. Sometimes, Savitha caught him eyeing her greedily—as if he were already counting the coins she was minting for him. She didn’t mind. “He’s paying me extra,” she said to Poornima. “Besides, once