We, the kids on the roof. My cousin Radhika told me about her homework for the day. In her hand was a diagram, a biological illustration of a dragonfly, two hatch-marked eyes laid flat on the page. Why did they make her memorize this? She didn’t ask that question herself. Her younger brother wanted to go see Podilamma. He jumped up and down announcing where she was. Radhika’s eyes were large, like squat almonds. She looked towards where her brother pointed and said, Yes. She was a little older and guided us. At the back of the shrine are two figures. One beautiful, wearing a silk sari, and behind her another figure, the first Podilamma, made by her brothers who couldn’t afford better than the rough rock with silver eyes. Slivers of sunlight made them glow; at night, they reflected our rotating wicks, our small bundles of incense. We became reverent for a few seconds before we jittered out of the temple.
The winter my sister called I thought of your hair. In my notebooks, Radhika, I drew your ribbons in orange surrounded by black hair, knowing you were upset by suitors who refused you.
My mother and father have left for business. The day grows frightful. Am I ugly, unlovable? Why have they not wanted me. No one will. I’m in the blue hall with these pesticides, with this rat poison. This one is my bride, my love.
Knowing it does not matter. The forests were quiet when my father began to study the effects of DDT in the soil in the late 70’s. On his bookshelf was Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, and after reading it, I asked him how he could still approve of pesticide use. Without DDT, he replied, millions would have died from Malaria.
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Sep 29, 12:47 AM