The Covenant of Water


 
 
 
 The
 Covenant
 of
 Water
 
 
 Also by Abraham Verghese
 Cutting for Stone
 The Tennis Partner
 My Own Country: A Doctor’s Story
 
 
 The
 Covenant
 of
 Water
 A Novel
 Abraham Verghese
 
 Grove Press
 New York
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Abraham Verghese
 Illustrations © 2023 by Thomas Varghese
 Map by © Martin Lubikowski, ML Design, London
 Jacket design and artwork by Kelly Winton
 Jacket artwork adapted from watercolour, Palmyra Palm Trees, by H. Schlagintweit, 1855. (Public Domain/Wellcome Collection).
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].
 This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between these fictional characters and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
 Published simultaneously in Canada
 Printed in the United States of America
 First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: May 2023
 This book was designed by Norman E. Tuttle at Alpha Design & Composition.
 This book is set in Janson Text 10.8-pt. by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH.
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title. 
 ISBN 978-0-8021-6217-5
 eISBN 978-0-8021-6218-2
 Grove Press
 an imprint of Grove Atlantic
 154 West 14th Street
 New York, NY 10011
 Distributed by Publishers Group West
 groveatlantic.com
 
 
 
 For Mariam Verghese
 In Memoriam
 
 
 
 And a river went out of Eden to water the garden.
 —Genesis 2:10
 Not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water, sings the pebbles into perfection.
 —Rabindranath Tagore
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Part One
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER 1
 Always
 1900, Travancore, South India 
 She is twelve years old, and she will be married in the morning. Mother and daughter lie on the mat, their wet cheeks glued together.
 “The saddest day of a girl’s life is the day of her wedding,” her mother says. “After that, God willing, it gets better.” 
 Soon she hears her mother’s sniffles change to steady breathing, then to the softest of snores, which in the girl’s mind seem to impose order on the scattered sounds of the night, from the wooden walls exhaling the day’s heat to the scuffing sound of the dog in the sandy courtyard outside. 
 A brainfever bird calls out: Kezhekketha? Kezhekketha? Which way is east? Which way is east? She imagines the bird looking down at the clearing where the rectangular thatched roof squats over their house. It sees the lagoon in front and the creek and the paddy field behind. The bird’s cry can go on for hours, depriving them of sleep . . . but just then it is cut off abruptly, as though a cobra has snuck up on it. In the silence that follows, the creek sings no lullaby, only grumbling over the polished pebbles.
 She awakes before dawn while her mother still sleeps. Through the window, the water in the paddy field shimmers like beaten silver. On the front verandah, her father’s ornate charu kasera, or lounging chair, sits forlorn and empty. She lifts the writing pallet that straddles the long wooden arms and seats herself. She feels her father’s ghostly impression preserved in the cane weave.
 On the banks of the lagoon four coconut trees grow sideways, skimming the water as if to preen at their reflections before straightening to the heavens. Goodbye, lagoon. Goodbye, creek. 
 “Molay?” her father’s only brother had said the previous day, to her surprise. Of late he wasn’t in the habit of using the endearment molay—daughter—with her. “We found a good match for you!” His tone was oily, as though she were four, not twelve. “Your groom values the fact that you’re from a good family, a priest’s daughter.” She knew her uncle had been looking to get her married off for a while, but she still felt he was rushing to arrange this match. What could she say? Such matters were decided by adults. The helplessness on her mother’s face embarrassed her. She felt pity for her mother, when she so wanted to feel respect. Later, when they were alone, her mother said, “Molay, this is no longer our house. Your uncle . . .” She was pleading, as if her daughter had protested. Her words had trailed off, her eyes darting around nervously. The lizards on the walls carried tales. “How different from here can life be there? You’ll feast at Christmas, fast for Lent . . . church on Sundays. The same Eucharist, the same coconut palms and coffee bushes. It’s a fine match . . . He’s of good means.” 
 Why would a man of good means marry a girl of little means, a girl without a dowry? What are they keeping secret from her? What does he lack? Youth, for one—he’s forty. He already has a child. A few days before, after the marriage broker had come and gone, she overheard her uncle chastise her mother, saying, “So what if his aunt drowned? Is that the same as a family history of lunacy? Whoever heard of a family with a history of drownings? Others are always jealous of a good match and they’ll find one thing to exaggerate.” 
 Seated in his chair, she strokes the polished arms, and thinks for a moment of her father’s forearms; like most Malayali