Toy Soldier

The air in our house has a weight to it, like the thick, gray water that gathers in the buckets during the monsoon. It smells of burnt lentils and the sharp, stinging scent of my father’s cigarettes. When the voices start, the weight presses against my ears until they thrum.

My mother’s voice is a jagged piece of glass; my father’s is the heavy hammer that tries to smash it.

“Manku!” my mother screams, but she isn’t looking at me but at the space where my father stands, her finger pointed like a bone. “Manku, go to your room!”

I don’t go to my room. The walls there are thin, and the sound leaks through the cracks in the wood. Instead, I reach for my yellow cloth bag. Inside, there is a tin soldier with a chipped red coat, a blue plastic car with three wheels, and a marble that has a universe of green smoke trapped in its center.

I slip out the back door. The latch makes a small clink, but they don’t hear it. They are too busy building a tower of words that always falls down.

The path to the river is lined with stinging nettles and the frames of old umbrellas. I walk until the shouting behind me becomes the hum of a distant bee, and then, finally, silence.

The river doesn't have a name, or if it does, it’s a secret. To me, it is just the Great Gray. It moves slowly, like a giant snake that has swallowed the sun and is trying to digest it. I sit on the flat rock—the one I call the throne of whispers—and unpack my bag.

"General," I say to the tin soldier, standing him up in the soft silt. "The war is very loud today. We must build the fortifications."

I gather smooth black stones and line them up. These are the houses of quiet. Inside these stones, no one ever raises their voice. The inhabitants eat clouds and sleep on beds of moss. I take a dry peepal leaf and set it on the water.

"That is the boat for the Mother," I whisper. "It will take her to the place where the glass doesn't break."

The river ripples. It laps at the mud with a sound like a tongue. Shhh-wash. Shhh-wash. I think the river is lonely. It takes everything people throw into it—broken plastic buckets, wilted garlands, the ash from the ghats—and it never complains. It just carries it all away to the place where the horizon touches the water.

At night, the house changes. The shadows under my bed stretch out like long, thin fingers. I lie very still, counting the pulses in my neck.

Then, the crash.

It’s a plate this time. I know the sound of the blue ceramic hitting the floor. It sounds like a star exploding.

"I can't do it anymore!" my mother wails. It’s a high, thin sound, like a bird with a broken wing. "You’re draining the life out of this house!"

"Then let it die!" my father roars. His voice vibrates in my mattress. "One day, I’ll just leave you both. I’ll walk out that door and disappear. You won't find a trace. Not a hair, not a shadow."

I pull the quilt over my head. Disappear. I try to imagine my father turning into smoke. I imagine him becoming transparent, like the wings of a dragonfly, until the wind blows him over the rooftops. If he disappears, will the shouting go with him? Or will the shouting stay in the walls, waiting for someone else to pick it up?

I feel a cold lump in my chest, right where the marble sits in my pocket. I am afraid that if he disappears, he will take the light with him, and we will be left in a house made of tea-stained shadows.

The next day, the air in the house is scorched. My mother has a purple smudge under her eye that she tries to hide with her sari. My father sits at the table, staring at his hands as if they belong to a stranger.

I run to the river. I am panting when I reach the throne of whispers.

"He said he would go," I tell the water. I feel a tear catch in the corner of my mouth. It tastes like salt and dust. "He said he would leave us in the dark."

I reach into my bag. I look at the tin soldier. He is my favorite. He has seen the great gray many times. He is brave.

"You have to tell him to stay quiet," I whisper to the soldier. "Or you have to take the anger away."

I lean forward and press the soldier into the mud, right at the water’s edge. The river reaches out a small, cold finger of foam and tugs at him. Slowly, the red coat sinks. The water closes over his head.

"A gift," I say. "For the silence."

I give the river my green marble next. It sinks fast, a flash of emerald before it vanishes into the silt. I feel lighter, as if I’ve given the river a piece of the weight from my chest.

It happens on a Tuesday. The sky is the color of a bruise.

The fighting starts before the lamps are even lit. It isn't just words tonight. It’s the sound of furniture dragging. It’s the sound of my mother screaming a name that isn't mine.

CRACK.

Something heavy hits the wall right behind my head. I don’t wait for the "go to your room." I grab my bag—it's almost empty now—and I run. I don't even put on my slippers. The thorns bite my feet, but I don't feel them.

I sit by the river in the dark. The water is blacker than the sky. I wait for the moon to come out, but it stays hidden behind the clouds. I stay there for hours, listening to the river breathe. It sounds heavy tonight. Fed.

When I finally creep back home, the gate is hanging open.

The house is silent.

It is a silence so thick I can taste it on my tongue. The front door is ajar. Inside, the lamp is flickering, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.

My mother is sitting on the floor in the kitchen. She is surrounded by the blue ceramic shards of a dozen plates. She isn't crying but staring at the open door, her hands resting limp in her lap like two dead fish.

"Ma?" I whisper.

She doesn't look at me. "He’s gone, Manku," she says. Her voice is hollow, like a cave. "He finally did it. He just... walked out."

The next morning, the neighbors are gathered by the well. Their voices are low, but I am good at listening.

"...saw him heading toward the embankment," Mrs. Gupta whispers, clutching her shawl. "Walking like a man in a trance."

"...found a shoe downstream," old Mr. Das adds, shaking his head. "Near the bend where the current pulls. They’re calling for the divers."

I look at my mother. She is washing the floor, scrubbing at a spot that isn't there. She looks like a ghost that forgot to leave.

I go back to the river one last time. My bag is light. Only the blue plastic car remains.

The river looks the same. It doesn't look guilty. It doesn't look sad. It just flows, carrying the world’s secrets towards the sea.

I sit on the throne of whispers. My feet are covered in dried mud. I look at the spot where I buried the tin soldier. The mud has smoothed over. There is no sign he was ever there.

"You heard me," I whisper. My voice is small, smaller than the rustle of the leaves.

I think of the house. It is quiet now. There is no hammering, no glass breaking. But there is no laughter either. There is just the sound of the clock ticking and the wind trapped in the chimney.

I take the blue car out of the bag. Its three wheels spin uselessly in the air.

"Did you take him?" I ask the great gray. "Or did you just take the noise?"

The river ripples against the bank, a soft, wet sound. Shhh-wash. "You promised," I say, my throat tightening. "You promised you would make the shouting stop."

I stand up and toss the blue car as far as I can. It bobs for a moment, a tiny bright spot against the vast, shifting gray, and then it catches the current. I watch it drift, getting smaller and smaller, until it is just a speck, and then nothing at all.