Karma (11 page)

Ushering Maya through the train station is like directing smoke.
This way. Left. Here. No. Not there. Over here. Yes. Just follow me. But stay close.

Don't touch her,
Amma had said. She meant SEX, of course, but even tapping Maya on the arm to guide her along the crowded platform seems questionable. If I reach for her will she run? Or dissipate?

People are stepping back to let Maya pass. I hear the voices whisper.
Who's that? You mean what's that?
Someone laughs.

She's as tall as a man. Her hair sticks up in ragged spikes. Her thin body could be a boy's, but the face is definitely a woman's. A mouth that curves up in spite of the sadness.

Is it a he or a she?

Maya doesn't flinch. She ignores them utterly.

It's a kothi. A
pretty boy
!

No! Here in Jaisalmer?

And this is what Amma was afraid of: the gossips have begun their work.

She refuses to get into a rickshaw. Marches past the long line of arm-waving, shouting drivers. Ignores their whining voices.

But why no rickshaw?

She swings her backpack over her shoulder and walks quickly.

But it's too far,
I say.
Really it is. The sun's climbing. We'll be pools of sweat if we walk.

She turns onto the main road.

Okay, so you've found the road. Great! But how do you know you're going in the right direction?

It's a stupid question. The Golden Fort of Jaisalmer looms in front of our eyes. Where else is there to go?

Well, at least put something over your face,
I call after her.

She stops. Pulls an orange sari from the backpack. Drapes it over her head and across her neck and shoulders. But instead of letting it hang down, she ties it under her chest in a big knot. Okay. THAT'S NOT GOOD. That's going to attract a lot of unnecessary attention.

Listen, Maya, why don't you fix your sari properly and I'll hold your backpack.

I reach for the strap, but she hits my hand and clasps the bag to her chest. Her eyes narrow into small dark peas.

Fine. I give up. Keep your ratty old bag. I've been trying to help but clearly you don't want any. I get it. Okay?

She doesn't answer. (Why would she?) Instead she looks past my angry face toward the city. As if she knows exactly where she's going.

And I am just a bug under her feet.

I was six when I first saw the great saffron fort. Leaning over the neck of a camel my hands reached for the enormous golden walls. I cried from the tug in my chest. As if the city was dragging me home.

Inside the gates the streets hummed like a beehive. I'd never seen so many people before. I turned to Barindra and asked,
But where are the goats?

Everyone in town has heard this story. How a nomad's son, wearing unbleached cotton, was the only survivor of a desert storm. How he learned to read and write, earning the top spot in every one of his classes. How he appreciated his salvation by being friendly to all his neighbours.

It's a heartwarming tale. Downright inspiring.

Except for when the hero falls, failing to live up to his promise. To his myth.

I watch Maya's face as we follow the maze of narrow streets into the old city. Her eyes soften. And not a smile, exactly, but something bubbles beneath her skin. Like an underground stream dampening the earth.

I've always been curious about water we cannot see. Running deep and silent, searching the place for where the earth will yield. Then a surfacing. A birth. Finally freed from the darkness.

I wonder if Maya feels it too? This coming-in-fromthe-wilderness.

(Damn this diary! My imagination is turning me into a romantic. The change in Maya's face is from the reflective glow of the yellow stones. That's it.)

We're almost home when I feel the blow on the back of my head.
Hari.
I spin around, grab his skinny shoulder, and hold him against the wall.
I don't have time for this. I'm already late because of you.

That's when I notice his eye. Already turning purple from my fist.
Don't worry,
I had assured him after he chased me through the streets, finally catching me in front of Salim Singh's haveli.
Your sister's still a virgin!
The punch was my promise.

Hari looks across my shoulder at Maya.
What's that orange thing standing behind you? Ah, your parents got you a real whore, Sandeep. So now you'll leave my sister alone!

I push Maya through the door. I'll deal with him later.

There was no time to explain before Amma's hand slapped my face so hard I cried out for a second time this morning.

An hour and half to get home from the train station? What were you doing? Look at her! I told you, Sandeep, you were not to touch the girl!

My throat goes dry.

I bite down on my anger.

But my mouth feels like it's full of sunflower husks.

I want to spit into the room.

Blame Maya for the shit I'm in and the welt swelling across my cheekbone!

But she lifts her head and looks at me.

The expressionless stare from the train station is gone.

The stubbornness that led us home is faded.

Her mask falls.

I see that her real face is a prison of fear.

I am sorry, Amma. Maya was frightened of the rickshaws. It was necessary for us to walk.

That is why we look so hot and disheveled.

Frightened of rickshaws? Who ever heard of such a thing?

What happened next was a little surprising to everyone. Maya dropped to her knees and kissed the hem of Amma's skirt. Then touched her feet.

According to Dadima, an unmarried girl in a house with an unmarried man (me) is disgraceful.
A stranger under our roof. The neighbours will be clicking their tongues by evening.

Amma has decided we'll not pass Maya off as a boy. We refer to her as our cousin from far away.
Where? Where?
the neighbours press.
Very far away!
Amma proclaims loudly.
And that's all you need to know!
My grandmother was right. The arrival of the girl with the orange sari twisted into a knot has not gone unnoticed, and after supper there are visitors streaming through the kitchen.

She is pregnant, yes, Mina?
they ask.
You will give her rosary pea to take the child away? No, no,
Amma argues.
Her parents are ill. We are only taking care of her for a time. Well, she doesn't look like a cousin,
their probing voices insinuate
. What happened to her hair? Why doesn't she speak? What evil takes her voice?
Cluck. Cluck.

Barindra enters the kitchen to the shock of Amma.
This is rubbish
he speaks firmly to the chattering women.
Accha, accha. Go away. Okay, okay, Barindra,
they say, and shrug. They bustle to the door, not waiting until they're outside before commenting loudly,
What kind of man crosses the threshold of his wife's kitchen? What has happened to the Patel family?

Maya is sleeping.

In the small room.

At the top of the house.

Next to burlap sacks.

Rice. Lentils. Corn.

On a rope bed I carried up three flights of stairs. (Imagining her body sinking into the twine.)

Sandeep! You're not to be up here.

Do you understand? Ever.

The welt on my cheek flares.

Amma puts down the tray. Rice.
Dhal.

A glass of water. She pulls a cover over Maya, but she kicks it off and tugs her sari up to her chin. Adoptive mother shrugs.

It doesn't matter to me.

Amma pushes me past the thin cotton curtain and down the narrow stairwell.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders.

Ow!

Don't forget what I've said.

Yes, Amma.

But sleeping girls weigh heavy on the brain.

-  Are you writing everything down?

-  Oh yeah. It's exciting stuff. Maya breathes while she sleeps. Two days of nothing, Deedi!

-  Well, she has to wake up eventually. Then you can start with her habits. And ticks.

-  Ticks? How strange is this girl?

-  Everyone has ticks, Sandeep. For example, you tug your ears when you're upset.

-  I don't!

-  Repetitive gestures are interesting, that's all. They sometimes reveal trauma or nervousness.

-  I think Amma‘s getting suspicious about the book.

-  Tell her you want to be a writer, Sandeep.

AS IF.

But maybe an international spy.

Maya's habits:

eating—only water

nervous behaviour—tugs at hair

sleeping—all the time; no sheet;

orange sari

What's that in your hand?

A notebook, Amma.

What's it for?

For writing?

You're not sure?

I'm sure. I've decided to become a writer.

Aiiii! You are determined to have no future! Barindra! Have you heard of Sandeep's latest plan to waste his life? A WRITER!

Leave the boy alone, Mina. He'll find his way yet.

What kind of writing, Sandeep?
Amma's face is flushed the colour of a plum.

Er, poetry?

Aiii! Even more wasteful! And stop tugging at your ears! You'll make them even longer.

The contents of Maya's backpack:

sari

slip

secrets

silence

comb

(Is that a poem?)

And no ID at all.

Barindra hands me the
Hindustan Times
.

Rajiv Gandhi is quoted in bold print: “When a big tree falls, the earth trembles.”

A metaphor?
I ask.

Indira Gandhi is the tree,
he says
. The rioting in New Delhi is the earth trembling.

Earthquake?

Yes, Sandeep. Our new prime minister compares a naturally occurring event like seismic activity to hate crimes and revenge killings. And get this: the government insists that only 326 people were killed between November 1 and 7. But I have heard the total is closer to two thousand!

So many?

And Parvati heard five thousand! Yet 326 is the government's official number. And they claim that only a few communities were affected. Khichripur, Punjabi Bagh, and South Delhi. No more. Tell me, Sandeep, when entire families are wiped out, how do we forgive ourselves?

He storms out of the room. It wasn't a question.

I turn back to the paper. Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh. There were riots and murders in these states too.

Amma reads the paper over my shoulder.
It's like they couldn't stop.

Who?

The rioters. They were caught up in a mad frenzy.

You're excusing them?

No. I'm just stating a fact. These things happen in this country. Rightly or wrongly. Mob behaviour is difficult to control.

Not by the army, it isn't!
Bahrindra says, returning.
But no one called them! Do you realize that the government did nothing to prevent this slaughter? No politician came forward to denounce the madness!

But why?

Why? Electoral victory, Sandeep. More votes are won with dissension than peace.

I dreamed again of the girl in the golden sari.

Where are you?

Here.

But I can't see you. It's too dark.

Don't worry. I'm here.

Say my name. Say my name and I'll know you're here.

Maya! Maya!

I woke up.

With Amma staring down at me.

She's up! The sound of pacing echoes through the house. Feet thudding like drums. How can a thin girl be so loud? I look to the sleeping bodies, but no one else is roused.

A new noise starts, a creaking whine. Like a rope stretching between an ox and its cart. Dadima rolls over, but her breathing returns to a low steady snore.

I run up the stairwell, two steps at a time. A finger to my lips.
Shhh! Shhh! You'll wake the women, Maya! Shhh!
A line of spit dribbles down my chin.

On the top riser I push the curtain back and see Maya jumping up and down on the cot. Finally she gets high enough to grab the edge of the stone wall. Her feet dangle over the bed. Her head tilts back.

What are you doing?
I whisper as loud as I dare. But I know exactly what she's doing.

She's looking at the night sky from the space where the wall doesn't meet the roof.

I want to go to her. But to do what? Let her put her foot on my shoulder? Hold her up so she can

see the slice of white moon swinging over the city like a cold sun?

(I'm not supposed to be in here and I'm not supposed to touch her.)

I step past the curtain at the same time she lets go. She drops down onto the bed. Her legs collapse under like a foal's.

We look at each other. Tears spill from her eyes like fallen stars.

Oh dear. She's even beautiful when she cries.

She's too skinny,
Amma says as Maya slides out the door to the street.
I had to pleat her sari a dozen times. It was like dressing a corpse.

She grabs a pot and starts hitting it with a metal spoon.
Bang! Bang!
She's erasing the unlucky words from the air.

And she's too young to wear that sari! Shall we have to pay for a
salwar
and
kameez
as well as feed the child?

The question is for Barindra, who's not here.

He's gone to the post office to mail letters to the consulates: USA, England, France, Germany, Italy, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Kenya. The letters ask if a young girl from their country has been reported missing.

Go on now, Sandeep. Take her to the market. Barindra doesn't care what people think, so why should I? Buy her some sweets. Her bones could use the fat. And her disposition could use the honey.

Yours too, I think, but don't dare say.
All right
,
Amma. I could go for some little round
ladoos
right about now.

Not for you, Sandeep! And don't go to Rashid's stall!
she shouts after me.
He charges too much! And tell the girl to keep the scarf on her head!

I'm surprised we're allowed to go out at all. Maya's of marriageable age. Her short hair indicates she might be a widow or a girl of ill repute. But Barindra said,
Let them go
.
It'll be fine. We don't live in the Dark Ages. And besides, we are well respected in this town.

For some odd reason, Amma doesn't argue.
Oh, I'm sure the town has moved on to other gossip, Barindra.