Chained (3 page)

“I’ll find a way to help pay him back so you can come home sooner. I don’t want you working for these people.”

Amma looks away and stares at the ground. A shrill voice pierces the silence.

“Where is that servant girl? What happened to my swan?”

“Does everyone in this family talk that way?” I ask.

Amma jumps up and smooths out her sari. “Sharmaji’s wife. I must go. You’ll come by again tonight before you go back to the village?”

“Of course.” I stand up. “But I mean it, Amma. I’ll find a way to get you back home.”

She kisses my forehead. “Don’t be silly, Hastin. I will see you tonight.” She rushes out the door and grabs the papaya basket on her way to the house.

I stand on tiptoe to peek through the window. When Amma reaches the door, Raju’s wife grabs her arm and yanks her into the house.

Amma cannot live like this. With trembling hands I close the door to Amma’s shack and run toward the road that leads to the marketplace.

4

An orphaned elephant will try to find a new herd, but will sometimes be rejected.

—From
Care of Jungle Elephants
by Tin San Bo

Walking hurts less than pedaling now, so I leave the rickshaw at Raju Sharma’s house to pick up later. It would have been wise to take a water jar from Moti’s back before Amar left, but I don’t think of this until I walk a few blocks in the dry heat.

When I finally turn the corner to the marketplace, I stop and look up and down the road. Shop after shop lines each side of the street as far as I can see. Some vendors have stores, and others sell their items outside from tables or booths or blankets on the ground. Baba let me come here with him once, and we found a spot on the road to sit and sell his carvings. The market seems so much bigger as I stand here alone. Finding Amar in this crowd will be harder than I thought. But certainly I will find a job here.

Some of the men who are shopping wear wrapped turbans, while some wear head coverings that hang long and straight. Other people wear clothes like I’ve never seen and have skin so pale they look like ghosts in the crowds of shoppers. Gray-white cattle roam the side streets or rest in the shade.

Cloth and saris of colors I have never imagined hang on lines and fill the shelves of an outdoor shop. Amma’s clothes would look faded and rough next to these. Maybe I can get a job folding material and helping customers. I reach out to touch the silky fabric of a sari, then flinch and step back when the woman who runs the shop yells and smacks my hand.

The next place has tables full of metal bowls that hold spices like cinnamon and turmeric. A woman uses a mortar and pestle to grind spices in a small bowl. The heat of chili powder fills my nose.

Rows of brightly painted carvings at a wood-carver’s booth catch my eye. Large and small carvings of Ganesh and other gods, and animals—elephants, tigers, and camels—sit in rows on a table. The largest carvings stand face-to-face with me, while the smallest are the size of my thumb. I pick up a tiny carved elephant, painted yellow. Its wood is smooth, but I rub a spot that should have been sanded more. And perhaps the trunk needs more detail …

I almost drop it when I notice the old wood-carver behind the table looking at me. For a moment I worry I spoke out loud, but the man smiles and hands me a wooden box that fits in the palm of my hand. A row of elephants marches around the sides of the box, and one large elephant covers the lid.

“Open it,” says the wood-carver. “See what’s inside.”

I lift the lid and peek into the box. It’s filled with wooden elephants, each about the size of my smallest fingernail. I cannot imagine how long it must have taken to carve each one. Holding the box close to the table, I pour them out, then line them up in a long row, trunk to tail. When I feel a gust of wind I cup my hands around the elephants to protect them.

The elephant box would be a good gift for Chanda. I imagine seeing her smile when I hand it to her.

I scoop up the elephants to put them back. Not being able to afford a gift for Chanda makes me feel as small as the elephants in my hand. Each one drops into the box with a quiet
plink
.

“You are a fine wood-carver.” I hand the box back to the man.
But not as good as Baba.
“My father was a wood-carver, too.”

The man smiles but says nothing while he arranges carvings on the table.

“I used to help him,” I add. “He was teaching me. He said I was a fast learner.” I wander to the next table. The colors are pretty and the figures well painted, but I like the natural wood of the carvings Baba made. The elephants he carved were so lifelike, I could imagine them trumpeting and stamping through the jungle.

“Maybe you could use a helper.” I pretend to take interest in a bright orange carving of a tiger and hold my breath while I wait for a response.

“My sons work for me. I have all the help I need. They are almost as good as I am.”

Before he can see my disappointment, I step back and melt into the crowd of shoppers.

As I wind my way through the mob, I see jewelry stores full of gold and silver bracelets and shops where women and girls my own age sit on the ground and weave baskets.

At each place I try to convince the shop owner what a wonderful puppet maker, floor sweeper, or goat milker I would be.

“No, go away. I don’t need a helper.”

“Our whole family works here in our shop.”

“I wouldn’t be able to pay you.”

Many vendors wave me away and say nothing.

The sky turns pink and orange as the sun begins to drop. Everyone will leave here before dark. I want to grab the setting sun and push it higher into the sky so I will have more time.

I rush from shop to shop now, the colors and smells and sounds of the marketplace all blending together. I don’t even know what jobs I’m asking for anymore, since I’ve stopped looking at the items on the tables. I look only into the faces of the vendors, hoping this will be the one who will help me make everything all right again. I want them to see my face, too, to see how important this is, how desperate I am to work. But no one looks at my face.

At the end of the marketplace, I stop to catch my breath. The scent of mustard oil pulls me toward a samosa shop. The woman at the counter drops a potato mixture onto pieces of dough, then folds them into triangular packages. When she makes enough to fill a tray, she hands it to her husband. With a slotted spoon, the man lowers the samosas into a black pot, heated by a flame that burns underneath. My mouth waters as the samosas tumble and bump into one another in the sea of bubbling oil. When they are fried golden brown, he removes them with the spoon and places them into paper-lined baskets.

“You like samosas?” the woman asks me.

“Yes, I do.”

“Ten rupees.”

My hands search my pockets as if some long-forgotten coin will suddenly appear. I start to mention what a good cook I am but can’t bear the thought of being turned down again. Then I think of my mother—her black eye, the shack, the screaming family.

“I can help you sell your samosas,” I say to the woman as she folds the dough. “I’ll take baskets of them around the marketplace, then bring the money back to you.”

The woman laughs. “I cannot send our food into the marketplace with a boy I don’t know.”

“Then I can help you make more,” I suggest. “It looks like you are very busy. You don’t have to pay me at first. You’ll see what a good worker I am before you hire me.”

“Don’t you see this small space we have here?” she snaps. “We are bumping into each other as it is.” She turns back to her work.

With nowhere else to go, I sit on the ground nearby and rest against the wall. I look back at the shops that make up the marketplace. The vendors are packing up their things for the day. Some carry boxes up a flight of stairs to their homes above their shops.

I turn toward the sound of clinking glasses. A boy who looks a little younger than I am strides by. The wire basket he carries has eight spaces for holding tea glasses. He seems to be in a hurry, yet hardly anything spills from the two glasses that are still full. The man and woman at the samosa booth greet him with a smile. He hands them each a glass of tea. My eyes follow the coins that pass from the samosa vendor’s hand to the boy’s, then to his pocket. The man hands him two more coins, which the boy puts into his other pocket. He chats with them as they drink their tea, then they hand him the empty glasses.

He hurries away with his tea rack and turns down a nearby side street. I jump up to follow him.

5

An elephant can be coaxed with words better than with physical force.

—From
Care of Jungle Elephants
by Tin San Bo

Down the streets of the marketplace I follow the tea boy. I pass a group of children and watch them break a piece of roti into small pieces to share. When I look up, I’ve lost sight of the boy. I hurry down the street and stop to catch my breath when I reach the corner. To my right, nothing but cows and a few shoppers and vendors leaving for home. I scan the thinning crowd, then run down the road to my left—and smack into the back of the tea boy.

He curses as he topples forward. I stand frozen in place and watch him fall. With both hands he clutches his rack of empty glasses and holds it out in front of him. The glasses clink and rattle against the metal rack. Clouds of dust puff up when he lands with a thud and an
ooof
, stomach-first onto the ground. Both of us look at the tea rack, and I sigh with relief when I see the undamaged glasses.

I reach out my hand. “Sorry!”

The boy ignores me and gently sets the rack down before pushing himself up.

I stare at the ground. “I wasn’t looking and…”

“Well, you should watch where you’re going! If these glasses broke I’d owe more money than I earned today,” he says.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

He inspects each glass more closely. “Yes, nothing is broken—on me or the glasses.”

“I’m Hastin.”

He nods. “I’m Yusuf.” He brushes the dirt off his clothes.

“I’ve been looking for a job all day. Everyone turned me down. I saw you selling tea and thought you could tell me where to get a job like that.”

“I don’t know anyone who needs a tea boy.”

“I have to find something—anything!” As we walk down the road, I tell Yusuf about everything that brought me to the marketplace—Chanda’s illness, Amar and Moti, my mother’s job with Sharma’s family.

“Even if someone did hire you today,” says Yusuf, “to earn four thousand rupees you would have to work for…” He starts to count on his fingers. “… a very long time.”

We pass a few shops that remain open. The scent of spices fills the air at a booth where jars of pickled mangoes line the shelves. A woman chops mangoes and limes and tosses them into a vat of mustard oil. She adds a small piece of wood to the fire below a pan of roasting spices. Smoke billows toward her, and she covers her face with the end of her sari, reminding me of Amma.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” I say.

“There was a man at the café talking to Naresh—that’s my boss. He’s looking for a boy to take care of an elephant for his circus.”

“An elephant? Around here?” I ask.

“No, not here—too hot and dry. Do you like animals?”

“Yes—except for camels.”

“The job sounds fun!” says Yusuf. “Living in the jungle, and Timir—that’s the circus man’s name—Timir said that people from all over the world will come see the elephant do tricks. If he’s still at the café, you can ask him about the job. I have to return the tea glasses to Naresh and give him his money.”

“Give him his money?” I ask. “But you’re the one selling the tea—why do you have to pay him?”

“I get to keep some, but Naresh is the one who buys the tea and makes it, so he keeps most of the money. And whenever I break a glass—I still hate to think how much I’d owe him if these broke when you ran into me!”

I stop walking and back up a few steps to look down the road we just passed.

“Wait, there’s Moti!”

“You mean that camel? I thought you hated her,” Yusuf says as he follows me down the side street.

“Yes, but maybe that’s Amar on the other side of her.”

As we approach I see that it is Amar, arguing with a customer about Moti’s price. I raise an arm to stop Yusuf from walking too close to Moti. We wait and listen.

“Twenty thousand rupees is a fair price for such a fine animal!” says Amar.

“But it will cost money to feed her! I let my cow go free because her food cost me forty-five rupees a day.”

“Yes, but that was a cow,” says Amar. “A camel is not so picky. Give her some straw, or let her graze on the cactus around your home. Much cheaper. Take her home for only seventeen thousand rupees.”

“I don’t know…” The man turns to leave.

Amar touches his arm. “Did I mention their milk? Much better quality than cow’s milk. Some say it has healing powers! Use what you need for your family and have plenty left to sell. More money for you. Only sixteen thousand rupees.”

“He’s good,” Yusuf whispers.

“I can pay thirteen thousand,” says the customer.

We laugh when Amar clutches his heart in horror. “Thirteen thousand!” He shakes his head. “I could never let her go for such a low price. What other animal can carry you across the desert without stopping for a drink?” He waves his hands at some imaginary desert in front of him. “Fifteen thousand. That’s as low as I can go.”

The man sighs. Amar leans forward, waiting for his answer. Yusuf and I lean forward, too. Even Moti stares at the man, as if she, too, is anxious to hear his decision. Just when I think the man will walk away, he reaches into his pocket.

“All right, fifteen thousand,” he says as he pulls out a stack of bills. The two men shake hands, then Moti’s new owner takes her rope and leads her away.

“There you are,” says Amar when he notices me.

“This is Yusuf,” I say. “He’s showing me the café where he works. Can I meet you back at Raju Sharma’s house? I left the rickshaw there.”