Glass Bottom by Sonali Prasad

Author:Sonali Prasad
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MacMillan
Published: 2024-07-30T00:00:00+00:00

22

Himmo sat with one leg folded and pressed under the other thigh in front of a black Buddha fountain close to the cashier. She waited for the numbness to set in, then stood up on the cold floor, enjoying the sensation creeping back into her flesh. Her mother had dragged her to the parlour as continuing punishment for the biting incident. There were two customers in the shop. Luni attended to a girthy being, wiping colour stains off her ears and forehead with a cotton ball. Each section of her hair had been meticulously painted—first mid-length, then roots, then ends—and placed on top in a pile. Another beautician worked on bleaching her client’s face. A spindly, underage worker swept the floor. Her movements reminded Himmo of the women who stooped to sweep the sides of the tar mixture as it was poured in a strip on the main road.

The television played on mute and a celebrated astrologer beamed through, picking cards for different horoscopes. The cashier had turned on the radio for some Bollywood music on an overcast day.

Buddha couldn’t weep, so the fountain was a stagnant pool. Himmo had spent some time spreading her palms on his face and massaging his earlobes. She fished out a few crumpled flowers from her dress pocket—treasures from the last standing plumeria near the construction site. Hung from its branches was a mass of white water cans over a shrine built by the fishermen. A small red structure decorated with bells, lace and ribbons; its crevices filled with shiny pebbles, and wishes written on chits and shells. It was home to stuffed toys and a row of idols, including Mary Mata in a sari, with a crescent at her feet atop a lotus base. She stood bowing next to a cross that curled, both covered with a mosquito net. Himmo, during her visits, would be mildly interested in her because of the unusual veil. She was ‘their god wearing our clothes’. Himmo wondered what would happen if she changed the clothes and added a bit of makeup, but even then, in her mind, the face was kind and almost too sweet. Who really grabbed her was the little wooden man on the far right, put there by the priestess.

I told the junk shop guy exactly what I didn’t want, the old woman had said. No beard and not blue, no crown or pets or nails or anything loud like that. But a turban with a little feather in it, now that could work. Red clothing and a moustache. A lovely, long moustache.

Himmo had looked at his eyes painted closed, the barely arched eyebrows and a mouth that was a red dash. The face worked as a face before a real face. It could switch at any time. The eyes could open and shoot flames; the mouth show teeth. Even if it was a smile, it would be something wide and powerful, not sweet. God in her mind could never just be sweet.

So you pray to him? she’d asked the priestess.

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