The Palmist at the Beach

Warm and salty, the sea’s breath on my face is intimate. Its heavy, sticky fingers follow me as I move. In the sky the round orb hangs dreamily, iridescent. The water reflects the full moon lighting the beach in a mystical, silver glow. Walking on the deserted sands, my toes digging in to their warmth, I’m blissful. Between me, the water and the sky only the waves sound.

Walking languidly along the beach, I see a woman sitting on the sand watching the waves. She smiles as I approach. 

“Come, I have been waiting for you,” she says.

I’m perplexed. “Who are you?” I ask.

“Can’t you see? I’m a palmist.”

Looking at her closely, I realise that she is right. She is middle aged, dressed in an old, frayed cotton sari. Her black hair, held loosely in a bun with a strand of Jasmine flowers, is shining in the moonlight. On her round face is a big, red bindi and streaks of yellow turmeric. She is holding a tinsel framed rod that I have seen the beach palmists carry. Beside her is a cloth bag, out of which I see other odd objects of her trade stick out. She looks at me with her big, kohl smudged eyes.

“Can you tell me about the future?” I ask, sticking my hand out.

She smiles and shakes her head, “I can’t tell fortunes.”

“But you are a palmist!” I remark.

“Child, this beach is my life. When I first came as a newlywed bride to my husband’s home in the fishermen’s ghetto over there,” she said pointing to one end of the beach, “it disgusted me. I hated the fish stench of the air, the sand that followed me everywhere and the heavy sea breeze that made me ill. But with time it became home. When years later I found myself abandoned with two children and no means to live, this beach became my destiny. Telling a few stories to amuse rich people seemed like a small price to pay. I became a palmist.”

 “But why did you stop me then? If you cannot read my palm, what can you tell me?” I ask.

“A story,” she replies. “I can give you a story.” She stops and looks at me. I sit down on the sand next to her.

“It was years ago,” she begins. “One cloudy evening I was walking along the beach trying to find customers. It was a dreary day, not many people were out. That was when I saw a woman sitting by herself. I walked towards her and asked her if she would like to know her future. She smiled and held out her palm, she did not even stop to bargain the price. I took her hand happily and recited my practised lines.

‘How many children do you have?’ she stopped me midway. She had seen through my act.

‘Two.’ I replied shamefaced.

She smiled, ‘They are lucky, they have a very loving mother.’

‘I have to feed them that is why I do this.’ I tried to explain.

She nodded, ‘I understand. I have a daughter,’ she paused for a while and then said, ‘And today I will abandon her forever. There was such sadness in the hollowness of her voice that I did not interrupt.

She pointed to her handbag lying on the sand beside her. ‘In that bag is a bottle of pills that will kill me today.’

I was shocked. I could feel the pain of this beautiful woman’s impending death, and I felt tears well up in my eyes.”

“But why? Didn’t you ask her why she wanted to do it?” I interrupted the palmist’s story.

“No. It never occurred to me to ask why. There was such truth in her eyes that it forbade all questions and doubts. It was enough to feel her pain. She then reached over to her bag and took out a wad of notes. She handed it to me. I stepped back and refused to take the money. But she looked into my eyes. 

“This is all the money I have left from my life. Buy something for your children.”

I couldn’t refuse. I took the money. She looked away, and I was about to leave when something stopped me.

‘But can I do something for you?’

She looked at me for a minute and then said, ‘Yes. You can give me my story.’

I was confused, ‘But I can’t read or write how can I…?”

She shook her head, ‘Years from now, another woman will come walking down this beach, lost and desolate as I am. She will have my eyes and in them will be the same pain you see in mine. Stop her and give her my story.’

The palmist stops and looks at me. Something in her gaze unsettles me. I decide that I do not want to hear the rest of the story. I try to get up to leave. But the woman continues, her gaze fixed on me, 

“She said, ‘In the drawer of my books, there is a copy of the book Silappathikaram; in it between pages 30 and 31 I have buried my story. Give it to her.’ I gave the woman my word of promise and walked away.”

I have grown very agitated listening to the palmist speak. The intent of this woman’s story dawn on me. I get up, angry and upset. “No. No. It is not true. How dare you! You horrible woman! Liar! It was a heart attack! I know! She did not kill herself. Stop it!”

I am almost hysterical now. She looks quietly at my face. “You do have your mother’s eyes.”

Her face zooms in on my consciousness until it jolts me out of sleep. Shocked, I sit up on my bed. Opening my eyes, it takes me a while to shake off the dream and recognize where I am. I realise that I had been screaming out in my sleep. My face is wet with tears and my whole body streamed with sweat. I can hear my heart pounding. I am breathless.

I jump out from the bed, search frantically and turn on my night lamp. Squinting in the light I hurry to my desk, knocking down things on my way. I pull out a cardboard box from the bottom drawer of my desk. Searching inside, I find a tattered copy of Silappathikaram. My hands are shaking furiously as I open the book. It opens easily to page 30. There squat between the two pages is an envelope. And on it, in that tiny, wiry handwriting that I so love, is my name.