After a while Kumaresan decided to stop under a large neem tree by the wayside. Its branches had spread over the entire width of the path, all the way to the other side, making the tree look like a giant umbrella. She looked up at it, but was unable to tell how tall the tree was; she had never seen a neem tree this huge. As soon as they halted beneath it, all her pent-up anxieties seemed to vanish, as though the tree had sucked the summer heat into itself. It was pleasant there in the shade. Glancing around the canopy, she remarked, ‘What a massive tree!’ She felt comforted by it, as though it had gathered her and seated her in its lap. She trusted that Kumaresan would similarly offer her refuge in his lap.

Right then, in a teasing tone, he said, ‘This is my ­village’s—no, no—our village’s kaanakkaadu,’ and pointed behind her. Confused, she looked at him. He explained, ‘This is the cremation ground.’

The lap that had given her refuge only a moment ago now pushed her away and shrank back into itself. Fearfully, she looked at the cremation ground. It lay beyond the neem tree, a vast outgrowth of bushes and huge trees that rose to the sky. There was no sign of anyone being buried or cremated there. The place hid all sorts of secrets within itself, even though it appeared unassuming. Saroja turned away, but something from behind her kept its gaze on her. She wanted to leave the place.

She was familiar with the cremation ground that was part of the Tholur Municipality. It spread over acres, dotted with pits and graves. Thickets of thorny bushes had taken over some spots. There were just one or two trees, and someone or other was always lying down next to the gravestones under those trees. The racket of the men who sat huddled in the middle of the clearings amidst thorny bushes, playing cards, was a permanent feature. The place was never deserted. Her father had told her that many even slept there at night. ‘They don’t even let the ghosts roam around in peace,’ he’d said. There was always a new pit dug out and ready in one place, and a corpse burning in another. But there was nothing of that sort here. As though he knew what she was thinking, Kumaresan said, ‘Only one or two corpses are brought here every year. Most of the time, you’ll only see cows and goats grazing here.’

She was trying hard to resist looking at the bushes with their closely guarded secrets when she heard a voice: ‘What is it, mapillai? Why are you standing here?’

She whipped around to see a man on a bicycle, standing with one foot on the ground. He had called out to Kumaresan with a friendly term of address commonly used between men. The man was wearing a loincloth and had a towel tied around his head. He looked middle-aged, with a swollen belly and thick hair covering his entire body. Had he not been wearing the loincloth and the towel, he would have looked exactly like a dark pig. Saroja felt both embarrassed and amused at the sight of the man, but she noticed that he was sizing her up carefully. As his bee-like eyes bore into her, she lowered her gaze to protect herself from his unsettling scrutiny.