A Map with No Labels

words by Megana Kumar, art by Riese Carlson

It felt easier to forget, sitting on the park bench. The wind had started to kick up around Shankar’s face, and chips of green paint wedged themselves under his nails as he shifted. Kavya had told him he might need a fleece, but the bite of cool air on his skin was nice. He watched as the goosebumps bloomed, one by one. The weight seemed to ease off his shoulders a little bit. 

He was about to close his eyes when he heard a shout. “Appa! I don’t think this is the place. The path by the lake doesn’t match what Thatha drew.” Kili had first told him about all the drawings a couple of weeks ago. Shankar had paid them no mind. It was his father’s way of remembering. Those hands could throw out brilliantly accurate pictures of old maps, curved characters of ancient languages, the sharp and soft lines of temple architecture — years of being a history professor had carved practice into memory.

In the days following his father’s passing, Shankar had found the drawings wedged everywhere –- in the pockets of crisp collared shirts, in the bathroom cupboard, shoved underneath the bed pillows. Kili had formed her own collection of them - the same set of lines repeated over and over again. She was hellbent on the idea that he’d left behind some sort of map for her. She’d insisted on visiting all the places they’d go to together - the park, his workshop, his office at college - so she could decipher them. Shankar couldn’t help but feel worried. He’d brought it up with Kavya, but she just pulled him close and told him it’d be healthy, that Kili could even find some closure through it. So there they were, at the park, Shankar on the bench, Kili knee deep in the grass, searching for shadows Shankar knew weren’t there. “We’ll go home then,” he called to her, reaching out. “I don’t think thatha would have drawn a map here, unless it was for all the ticks to come find your feet.” 

Kili snorted, sliding a palm into his. “Fine. We’ll go to his workshop tomorrow. I think there’s a better chance thatha left something for me there.”

“Sure, chellam.” 

“Appa, wait! Look!” Kili rushed onto the bench, plopping down next to him. “Doesn’t this line look like his workbench? It has to be in the workshop!” She waved the drawing in front of him, eyes lit with a certainty Shankar didn’t have the heart to break. 

“We’ll go tomorrow then.”

“Will you push me on the swings before we leave?”

“Of course.”

3/12/2018 - Black Book 4

1. 5:00 PM. Kili’s school finished early today. Kili, Kavya, and I went to the park, since Kavya’s work ended early today. Kili likes to go to the park. She always asks me to push her on the swingset. Pushing has gotten harder, but she soars through the same arc every time.

2. 5:30 PM. Kili and I sit by the lake near the park. We have a routine: she collects rocks, I sketch the lake. We exchange at the end. I start to tell her a story: “Once, in a big, wide lake, there lived a strong, scaled tortoise.” She asks me, “Does the tortoise live by himself? Isn’t he lonely?” and I cup my hand to her ear and whisper, “No, the tortoise has a parrot on his shell to keep him company,” and she laughs and laughs and laughs. 

3. 6:00 PM. Come back home. Shankar will usually be back from work around then. 

Note: I have attached the lake drawing here. 

The workshop was neat, as always. Neat and suffocating. It stank of familiarity. Shankar staggered a bit at the entrance, placing a hand over the French cleats on the wall to steady himself. He shuffled in slow, Kili on his tail. His feet made soft tracks in the woodchip dust. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kili trace over the Sharpie on the pegboard, marking where the hammer was supposed to go. 

They made their way to the workbench, pockmarked from projects. A large scar ran down its center. He pressed his hands over the cool curve of the caliper left behind, eyes catching something to his left.

“Didn’t thatha start making that for Amma?” Kili asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah, it was a reading stand Amma mentioned,” Shankar remarked. The edges needed to be sanded. He’d seen his father working on it. “I came in once when he was making it, and he got mad at me for setting his coffee down too hard.” 

“Sounds like thatha.”

“I ended up drinking the whole cup in front of his face.”

“Really?”

“Yeah!” He smiled, grabbing the hammer from the table. “See this? He chased me around with it for 30 minutes. That level of stamina is not natural for a man his age.” 

Kili giggled, pulling out the drawing from her pocket. “I’m going to look around the workbench, Appa. I think all the lines match up!” 

“Let me know if you find anything.” Shankar sighed and took a seat next to a table, leaning his head against the post. He turned to the side, finding the jars they’d stuck underneath to hold screws. The sunlight bounced off the glass, and he could see the dusty outline of a fingerprint clinging to the clear. He pressed his hand into the space next to it, holding it there. The slow weight of his father’s palm settled over his. 

It was a Saturday when they decided to put the jars in. An easy day, when his father still remembered enough. They’d come in at 6:30, like always. Rain slid down the panes of the windows. The floor was cool. They were racing, seeing who could put in the most jars. They’d gotten to the last one, and his father had pulled him to the ground before he could reach for it. Shankar had shoved his face into his shoulder, pushing on his chest, laughing into old, corded muscle. Into strained lines of skin that cut across sinew. Kavya had run in a moment later, seizing the jar and bolting off into the house with it, a smile stretched wide across her face. His father had made a move to stand up, and Shankar had tugged him down until they were sprawled on the floor, breathing in wood and linseed oil. Chests rising and falling in one steady rhythm.

Kili’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Appa,” her voice shook. “I can’t find anything.” She slumped down next to him, picking at the skin around her nails. “I thought-” She gestured helplessly at the lines in the drawing, opening her mouth and pressing it into a thin line again. 

Shankar stared at her for a moment. “I think I know something that would help,” he reached for something on the table, ambling over to her.  “Kili,” he whispered.

“What,” she muttered. 

He whipped out the hammer from behind his back. “You have a five-second head start.” Kili startled, scrambling from her place on the floor, darting to the pegboard. 

“Five,” he shouted, voice echoing off the ceiling. “Four,”

“You can’t catch me!”

“Forget the headstart, I’m coming!” He chased after her. The room’s static fell apart.  

“Appa, you’re cheating!” 

“I’m old, give me a break!” She ducked under a hanging rack of clamps and into the space between two shelves.

“I got you!” Shankar swept her away from the crevice, sending them both onto the ground, crashing into each other as Kili laughed, delighted. They stayed on the floor, breathing in wood and linseed oil. Chests rising and falling in one steady rhythm. 

She pressed her hand into his when they walked out, and the pegboard’s ink stayed in the slit between his finger and thumb. Marking where his father was supposed to go.

4/09/2018 - Black Book 15

1. 6:30 PM - In workshop. I was lifting a sandbag. I don’t know why. I don’t remember. The walls caved in. The bag split when I slung it over my shoulder and I couldn’t bear its weight. The dust sputtered everywhere. So many clouds of gray. I was scared I would forget how to breathe. I wasn’t the only one. He ran in and shouted at me. I knew it was Shankar. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. I knew it was him because he was not angry but worried. He shouted like he was seeing somebody drown. 

2. 7:00 PM - He cleared the mess and gave me water. My hands shook as they held the glass. I wasn’t scared because I thought I’d forget how to breathe. I was scared because when I first looked at him, there was a second when I forgot him. When I couldn’t find him anymore. The doctors told me that habits are the last to go. He is a habit for me. Carrying him around on my shoulders. Taking too large bites out of his food to make him angry. Drawing every map he asked for. Habits are lost without practice.

   1. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. Shankar is my son. He is too big to carry around on my shoulders, too worn to get angry when I take a large bite out of his food. But he is my son. I’ll draw every map he asks for.

Shankar finished sanding the reading stand before Kili asked him to go to his father’s office. The college hadn’t cleared it out yet. He didn’t know if it was out of respect or neglect. The bookshelf by the corner  remained intact. There were still pens on the floor from when he would grade papers. Dried flowers on the table from students who had heard the news. He wondered how his father would feel about his office becoming a relic. A fracture in time. History. Kili didn’t find anything there either. 

It was Kavya’s turn to get worried. “I think we should put an end to this,” she’d mentioned, “before she gets too disappointed.”

“How? You said it’d be good for her, and I’m afraid if we call it off before she finds something she’ll be stuck wondering if he left anything behind at all,” 

Kavya let the door slip open, a beam of light passing through the gap. Kili stood near the counter, eyebrows pinched in concentration as she held up the drawing to her face. “He left plenty behind,” she murmured, letting the door fall closed again. “You found it all when you went to each place,”

Shankar fell back into the bed. The low hum of the fan made him shut his eyes. “Is that enough?” 

The room felt quiet. Kavya shuffled to the bedside table, picking up the reading stand and turning it over in her hands.  “Do you remember when I asked him to make this for me?”

“It was the day you guys told me the panyarams I made were as hard as rocks.”

“You have a knack for only remembering bad things. And your panyarams were as hard as rocks. We tried using one as a shuttlecock the next day when we couldn’t find the real thing.”

A dry laugh escaped Shankar’s throat. “Of course you did.”

“Anyways, you were sulking and went to sleep early, and both of us stayed up reading. Your father made fun of the way I’d switch positions on the couch every two minutes because my wrists would start to hurt. And the next morning, he started on this.” She traced the wood with the pads of her fingers, rubbing them together when the white powder bled into her hands. 

“You should try making panyarams for your ungrateful family, it’d help your wrists.” She smacked his shoulder, huffing, coming to a measured pause.

“The point is,” she said, softly, laying down next to him, “is that it’ll never be enough. We’ll never get him back. But maybe we’ll have something to hold onto.”

5/10/2018 - Black Book 30

1. 3:00 PM - I sat in front of the couch today. I didn’t know why, but it felt right. I felt too tired to check the records about the reason. Someone settled into place behind me. Placed their hands in my hair and parted it before going in with a brush and dying each strand. I did not say anything because I wanted to figure out who it was before speaking. The dye had a strong smell. The hands knew where to look, where to pick out grey from. They had done this before. Finding every rift and patching it up. Slow, controlled, steady.

2. I could feel them finish when their breath stopped blowing through the skin of my scalp. They sat behind me for a bit. Maybe waiting for me to talk. I felt the solid weight of their knees press back against the couch. I still did not know who it was.  It was like driving on roads you don’t remember the name of, but knowing you are going home.

Shankar found Kili in the living room the next morning, tilting her paper this way and that to see if it aligned with something, anything. He padded his way to her, kneeling on the carpet. “Kili,” he said, voice gentle. “Will you come eat?”

“I’m so close, Appa. I can feel it!”

He turned towards her, cupping her face in his hands. “Kili, I don’t think the map leads where you think it does.”

“Of course it does! Thatha left something for us. He wanted us to figure it out, I know he did.”

“Thatha didn’t need to leave anything behind to prove that he loved you.”

“He did! He-” she halted. “Appa,” she said, faintly. “Can you show me your hands?” Shankar sighed, resting his hands in hers. “Oh my gosh.”

“What?”

“Look,” Kili breathed. She placed the drawing in his outstretched hands. “Appa, I found it.” Shankar glanced down at the page, staring at the grayed blots of faded ink. Watching the lines turn on themselves, curving in and back out. Kili sensed his confusion and started tracing over the lines of his palms with her fingers. Chasing each one as it turned on itself, curving in and back out. Shankar pushed his nail against the fissures in the ink left behind by the ballpoint pen on the page. The old scar he’d gotten when he’d first learned how to nail something in. A scab from burning himself on the stove. Rivulets of flesh, streaked and weary and loved.

Kili placed her thumbs under his eyes. “Don’t cry, Appa,” she whispered, wiping his cheeks. “I’ll cry if you cry.”

“I’m not crying,” he said, and he had to pause to swallow so his voice would thin out again. “Don't worry.” They stayed there for a long time, leaning against one another. 

Kavya walked in after some time. “Hey,” she knelt beside them, searching their faces. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

He let his fingers wrap around hers. “Yeah,” he spoke, clearing the grit from his throat. “Something to hold onto.”

6/12/2018 

Hello thatha! This is Kili. I see you with your black notebooks all the time, and you won’t let any of us read them, so I thought I’d write to you instead. 

Today was pretty scary. When we got to the house, and you weren’t there, Appa and Amma flipped out. Amma started running through all the rooms and Appa’s hands were shaking when he pressed every single digit on the phone’s callpad. But lucky for them, I knew where you were! 

We flew to the park in 10 minutes flat, because Amma decided all the speed limits were recommendations (yes, the same Amma who doesn’t go over them by a mile most days.) I knew Appa would be mad, so I told him to start over by the swings, where you wouldn’t be. 

You were by the lake. Near the shoreline. Your shoes were next to you, and your toes were buried in the rocks. I sat by you, and we both looked out at the water.

“I forgot my pencil,” you said to me, “and I have to draw the lake. Why do I have to draw the lake? I know. I remember, I know!” You ground the heels of your hands into your eyelids. I peeled them off and held them.

“It’s okay, thatha. You’ve drawn so many pictures of this lake for me. I can try drawing one for you!” I grabbed a stick and started sketching in the mud. It was nowhere near as good as your drawings, but it was something. You smiled. I drew a tortoise sitting on the rocks. You took the stick and drew a parrot on its shell.

“For company,” I said. You laughed, and I loved you for it.

Appa wasn’t too mad when he found us.