'How can a boy not go to college?'

'Some boys don't and that is all there is to it.'

'Something is wrong, I can see that much,' Ousep says.

'You see stories in nothing, Ousep. That is your way. You are a storyteller.'

THOMA CHACKO DROWNS HIS head in a bucket of water and keeps his eyes open so that they become red. He holds his breath and stares at the blurred bottom of the bucket. He imagines a world in the aftermath of a giant sea wave, a world that has been engulfed by the sea as foretold by Unni, he imagines these to be the final moments of his life. His lungs are about to burst but he holds on. How terrifying it is to drown. He hopes a fall from the building's terrace is less painful. The cracking of the skull is a very different form of death, it is faster. Though the best way to die is to be shot in the head. That is what Unni said. 'The explosion of the skull, Thoma, that must hurt but only for a moment. Once the bullet reaches the brain, there is no pain. That is the beauty of the brain. It is the brain that makes you feel every inch of your body, it is the brain that makes you feel pain, but the brain itself has no feeling.'

What might have gone through Unni's mind in the final moments before he jumped, what was he thinking? That afternoon three years ago, Thoma was asleep, but he had sensed the presence of Unni in the bedroom. He knew his brother had walked in, even stayed for a while before leaving the room. He remembers that. That, and an unfamiliar dream in which a woman is screaming, and running away from a giant tsunami. If Thoma had been awake, Unni would have sat down on the bed for a chat and even the thought of ending his own life might not have crossed his mind. Everything would have been different. But Thoma had slept.

He wants to know whether making his eyes go red is a good excuse for wearing his father's old sunglasses. It is important that Thoma finds a reason to wear sunglasses. His mother has just suggested that they ask Mythili Balasubramanium if she will teach Thoma in the evenings, maths especially. They are going to knock on her door and ask. Thoma wants to wear sunglasses when he meets her, she may respect him if she sees him that way. He does look dashing in wet hair and sunglasses, several people say that. They say, 'Thoma, you look handsome right now.' But would Mythili think that he has got conjunctivitis? Is it absurd to get the Madras Eye on a Saturday? And why does he suffer so much for her? When Unni was alive and they used to spend hours with her, he had thought she was an unbearable, talkative girl. But now that he is what he is, he thinks of her all the time, and the best thing about life and the worst is that she exists.

His eyes almost blood red, he goes to his father's bookshelf and searches for the old green glasses, which are usually left on top of a stack of books. But he can't find them now.

'Why are your eyes red?' his mother asks.

'I've got Madras Eye,' he says.

'You were fine one minute ago.'

'It always happens suddenly,' he says. 'Surely you don't think my eyes would first turn violet, then indigo, then blue and the other colours of the rainbow spectrum before they finally become red.'

'What are the other colours of the spectrum, Thoma? Let's see if you know.'

'I know. I know everything. I just don't tell.'

'Can't you memorize it, Thoma? It is so simple. Just stick inside your thick head the word VIBGYOR. And you'd be able to name the colours of the rainbow any time.'

'Don't irritate me.'

'Someone is angry with his mother today. What are you searching for, Thoma?'

'Where are the sunglasses?'

'I sold them,' she says. 'Come here, let me dry your hair.'

'Why did you sell the glasses?'

'There was someone asking on the church noticeboard.'

'How can you do something like that, how can you take something from our house and go and sell it?'

'I've done that all my life, you know that. All my gold bangles, they have become your shit, haven't they?'

'But you should not sell everything,' he says. 'Some things, you should not sell.'

'How do you think I put food on the table some days?'

'Always ask me before you sell things.'

'I'll only ask you if you're hungry, Thoma.'

They walk out together, leaving the door open. Across the short corridor is Mythili's door. There is something about that door, something arrogant. Another happy home shut to the Chackos. They stand at the door and wait. Thoma hopes Mythili will open the door holding a newspaper and ask, pointing to a headline, 'Thoma, I wonder what KGB stands for?'

'It's been three years since we went to their home,' Mariamma says, the way she usually announces a fact. 'Neighbours right next door, good people, but we have not been here in three years. It didn't strike me until now how strange that is.'

'Obviously they don't want us to go there,' Thoma says. 'Nobody wants us, can't you see?'

'That's not true, Thoma. Mythili smiles at me when she sees me.'

'It's a half-smile, can't you see? She used to love you. Everything has changed now.'

'She loves us still, Thoma. She is a grown girl now, that's all. She can't behave like a little girl any more.'

'Her mother definitely hates us. Elephant woman.'

'Don't say that, Thoma. She talks a lot to me from her balcony.'

'She doesn't talk to you, you talk to her. She just nods and hangs her underwear on the wire. She doesn't even look at you.'

But Mariamma is not listening any more. She smiles at Mythili's coir doormat, thinking of something, probably something entirely unconnected, maybe an unforgettable bird she once saw in her childhood. That is how Mother is. Her mind wanders. But at this moment she does look normal, more tame and womanly than she is at home. She looks prettier this way, even happy and wise. Which she is, though not many people know that.

'Mythili was just thirteen then, three years ago she was just a kid,' she says. 'She is a big girl now, Thoma. A child yesterday, almost a woman today. In the blink of an eye.'

Thoma feels a warm ache when his mother mourns the passing of an age. How time flies. The lost years. Those were the days. He has heard these all his life, but only after Unni's death did something in him stir at the sound of such phrases. The hurting sweetness of memory, it has no name in Tamil or Malayalam. That is what Unni said. But he said there is a word for it in English, which Thoma has now forgotten, a word that sounds like an ailment.

Unni said that there were thousands of Human Sentiments and many of them had not been named in any language. He said every person had at least one emotion that only he or she felt and no one else in the world could even imagine the feeling. 'Even you, Thoma, among the many things you feel there is one that only you can achieve and no other person in the world.'

'I know what it is, Unni, but don't tell anyone,' Thoma had said in a whisper.

'What is it, Thoma?'

'In the mornings, soon after I wake up, my penis grows on its own.'

'My God, Thoma, are you serious?'

'I promise.'

'Thoma, you are one of a kind.'

'I am?'

'You are a mutant, Thoma.'

'What do mutants do?'

'A mutant has abilities other humans do not have. You are a mutant, Thoma.'

It was the happiest moment in Thoma's life, even though Unni did say, 'But it is a talent, Thoma. It is not a sentiment.'

'That's what even I thought, Unni. It is a talent. But I do have feelings that others may not feel. I can smell the earth after it rains.'

'Many people can, actually.'

'Really? There is something else, then. Nobody else can even imagine it. Sometimes when I feel sad, when I think of the way our mother talks to herself, how our father comes home drunk, how we never go out as a family because we don't have any money, when I think of all that I feel a sorrow in my throat, it becomes a ball, and you know, Unni, I actually enjoy it. I like the pain in my throat and the way tears flow from my eyes. Someone who is looking at me may think that I am suffering. But I am enjoying it, too.'

'Thoma, you are really very different from others.'

'I am a mutant.'

'No. What you told me, that makes you a Unique Person. People go through their entire lives not knowing what is special about them. But I think you've found it at such an early age. What you told me about how you feel, nobody has that feeling, Thoma.'

'Can you think of a name for it? I don't want it to be unnamed. I want people to know that there is such a sentiment.'

'Only the Oxford dictionary is allowed to decide on new words, Thoma.'

Unni went to the phone and dialled a number. 'Is that the Oxford Dictionary Limited?' Unni said. 'I want to speak to the editor, please ... Sir, good morning. My brother Thoma Chacko appears to have discovered his Unique Emotion ...'

Thoma was so excited he was jogging on the spot and trying to get Unni's attention by waving his hand.

'What is it, Thoma?'

'Tell him, I am from St Ignatius School.'

Unni said into the phone, 'I am sorry to keep you on hold, sir. As I was saying, my brother Thoma Chacko, a day scholar at the St Ignatius High School for Boys, has discovered an emotion that is unique to him and he proposes that it be named. Yes ... yes ... of course. What happens to him is that on some days his sorrow feels like a ball in his throat and he begins to enjoy the whole thing.'

Many weeks later, Unni brought him a pocket Oxford dictionary that was so new that it was still in its plastic casing. Unni opened it and showed him the word 'Self-pity'.

'That's the word they made for you, Thoma.'

Thoma held the dictionary in his nervous hands and saw with a shudder in his heart what he had done. He had created an English word even though it was borrowed from two existing words.

'They have not mentioned my name,' he said.

'They don't mention names, Thoma.'

'Why?'

'That's the way they are.'

Thoma is not a kid any more, he knows what Unni did, but he still remembers the excitement of the day and he remembers it through a happy scent.

His mother is probably nervous. 'Wonder what is taking them so long to open the door,' she says.

'You've to ring the doorbell,' Thoma says.

'I didn't ring the bell?'

'No, you didn't.'

She begins to shake with laughter, and that makes him laugh too.

Mythili's mother opens the door and is surprised by what she sees. She does not realize it but she is slowly shutting the door. She stares with a sullen face, and if she stays that way for a second more Thoma and his mother will be shamed. She manages a smile just in time. 'Come in,' she says, but she moves back only two feet. She is still holding the door. Mariamma launches one leg in; the other is still outside. The door is ajar and there is no way Thoma can enter.

'He is having his coffee,' Mythili's mother says. The word 'he' from her mouth has always referred to Mythili's father, who is in the hall, minding his own business. Mythili is sitting beside him, on the sofa. She is in a sleeveless pink top that reaches to her knees, and her bare legs are together. She is careful that way, she was always womanly even when she was a little girl. Some girls, they are careless when they sit. They don't know that boys, especially the older boys, are always searching for 'The Gap', they are always on the lookout for it. Mythili probably knows, she is very shrewd.

But she seems somewhat naked right now. It is not just her legs, Thoma can see most of her shoulders and arms. She is this way only when she is indoors. If she wants to go to the front balcony she has to wear other clothes and tie her hair in a ponytail. The thought of Mythili being forced to obey the rules pleases Thoma. He imagines giving an instruction to her and she meekly obeying. That may never happen, but he enjoys the thought.

'I'll come later,' Mariamma says.

'But what is it?' Mythili's mother asks.

'I was wondering if Mythili can teach Thoma for an hour three days a week. He needs help, it seems to me.'

She catches Mythili's eye, and the girl smiles in a distant way, as if she is a stranger. That is unfair. There was a time when she used to shadow his mother, and say that she liked Mariamma more than her own mother.

'But she is going to be very busy,' Mythili's mother says. 'You know the exams are coming.' She turns to her daughter and says, 'You are going to be very busy.'

'Yes, I'm going to be very busy,' Mythili says.

Mythili's mother then steps out of her house and shuts the door. 'There is something I've to tell you, Maria,' she says. She has never been able to accept that Mariamma's name is not Maria. 'The money I gave you two months ago, just two hundred rupees, I know, but it would be nice if you could return it soon. Things are a bit tight right now.'

A jolt of shame runs through Mariamma. She does not realize it but her lips have vanished into her mouth. She smiles sheepishly at the floor, like a moron. 'I was going to return it in just a few days, meant to tell you that,' she says, and heads back home.

She wanders through the vacant rooms of her house, tossing a ball of crumpled newspaper in the air and catching it with one hand, whispering to herself what she has become. 'Girls who were village idiots when Mariamma was something, they are proud women now and Mariamma a beggar.' Occasionally, her voice rises and Thoma finds it unreasonable that in the middle of all this she should remember his grandmother, who has nothing to do with the day's humiliation. 'I have better things to do, Annamol, than make tea.'

She whispers a question a teacher had once asked her about the gold bullion, and how her answer was so brilliant the class was stunned. She walks this way, up and down the rooms, tossing the ball of paper and muttering compliments to herself.

Thoma imagines a day many years in the future when he would arrive in a black car so broad that it would have to be parked outside Block A, and all the people of the building would assemble on their balconies to take a look at the car. He would emerge from the car wearing dark glasses. His tight white shirt and white trousers and pointed white shoes gleaming in the sun. Then Mariamma would slip out of the car in a sari made of gold. And he would look up at Mythili's mother and throw a huge quantity of notes at her, most of which would somehow reach her third-floor balcony. She would look down at her own belly in shame. Then, for some reason, he would run in slow motion, his hair flying.

Thoma follows his mother as she now walks a bit faster through the rooms, her hands beginning to flay, her fingers stiffening to point at things. The ball of paper falls from her hand. He picks it up and gives it to her. She takes it without looking at him and resumes her march towards another yellow wall. He walks behind her, very close.

'Tell me a story from your village,' he says.

'Later,' she says without affection, as if it were just another voice inside her that had made the request.

He wonders how Unni used to do it. He could make her snap out of her grouses. He had Technique, that was what Unni had, but Thoma is not as smart. He tails her, wondering what he must do to make her laugh. She is slowly getting louder, she is remembering the same old grudges, the subject of her anger is not the humiliation of the morning any more.

She goes to the kitchen and wags a finger. Her lips curl in, her head tilts, her jaws stiffen in the fury of the words that do not emerge out of her mouth, and she points a finger at the ceiling. Thoma stands with her, he mimics her scowl and points a finger at the ceiling. Both of them stand this way for a few seconds. Until she relaxes her arm and looks at him with a hand on her hip. And she shakes with laughter. Thoma feels the relief of happiness, and for the first time in his life the air of triumph in his chest. What he had intended to achieve he has attained. That has never happened before. That a motive is followed by its realization may seem natural to most people but not Thoma. When Unni wanted to draw a cow, he drew a cow that was almost alive. Thoma cannot do that. His cows look like white sofas. When Mythili used to say that she was going to sing a song, she would shuffle a bit, swallow and sing exactly the way she had intended. And long after she stopped and looked shyly at Unni, there would be the silence of joy in the room. But the melodies that play in Thoma's mind, when they come out through his throat, even he does not recognize them. And down there on the playground nobody ever asks him to bowl because the ball can go anywhere in the world. They let him bat only because it does not make a difference to anybody. But today, Thoma had wished to do something, he had a goal, and he achieved it. Carried away, he continues to stand with his lips curled in and a menacing finger threatening the ceiling. She laughs again, but not as much.

MARIAMMA IS WAITING IN the dark, her back against the wall, legs spread out straight on the floor, her big toes interlocked. Ousep will come any time, swaying and stumbling, screaming his laments. If she is lucky he will come quietly on the arms of strangers, like a new cupboard. Once, the men had carried him straight into the flat below. That woman had shrieked as they tried to walk in with him. They tried to calm her down, saying that he was not dead, and they asked her the location of his bed. How that woman screamed.

After the incident, which was a few months ago, Mariamma sees a recurring dream. Ousep on the arms of able men being taken into an orderly home; the tidy woman of the house, with jasmine flowers in her hair, opens the door, then screams in fright and asks them to get out. The men carry Ousep to another home and ask the woman there to show them where his bed is. That woman, too, yells uncontrollably and throws objects at them. They go on this way, carrying Ousep to every home in the world, to be turned away by indignant women. Finally, the bearers of Ousep Chacko arrive at the door of Mariamma, who quietly shows them his bed. It is a dream that makes her sad sometimes, but at other times she shakes in her sleep with laughter.

Every time she sits this way waiting for him she feels a familiar fear in her stomach, though what is about to happen is a scene that occurs every night. The rosary moves between her fingers, but her lips mumble other things. One night, a night like this, she will be waiting but Ousep will not arrive. The phone will ring and a policeman will tell her, 'A man has been found dead on the road.'

'Then it is him,' she will say. 'That is how Ousep Chacko would go. Like a dog.'