Karma (18 page)

Sandeep approaches an old woman sitting next to the window. Her spindly arms and legs stretch across the bench. He smiles at her. She giggles.

He calls her Mother. He gestures to me. She shakes her head. I hear the word
Mother
again, and then finally she shifts down and allows Sandeep and me to squeeze into the seats next to the window.

You promised to make an offering for her life and health?

Yes. At the Chattarpur Mandir. A famous Hindu temple in Delhi.

And for that she gave up her seat next to the window?

A blessing for a healthy life. We'll leave a donation. A rupee or two.

Why doesn't she take her own rupee, make an offering, and then keep her seat?

Not as good as a stranger praying for you.

But why would she even believe you?

Because to lie about such a thing would bring very bad karma to me. And she knows I won't risk that.

So if a stranger promises to make an offering to a god, he is trusted. But if a stranger walks down the street with a turban on his head, he is assumed to be a traitor and must die. Is there no bad karma associated with that?

I don't know how murder is justified, Maya. Perhaps vengeance feels like the will of God.

I don't feel like laughing anymore.

Karma

Is there time to consider karma when a man is running down a smoke-filled hallway, tearing at a turban, scissors in hand, denying his faith?

Or when his body is lit on fire for a nation's vengeance?

A turban.

A beard.

A
kirpan
.

Items to justify his murder.

Why don't murderers think of karma?

Fear

I look at the old woman. She has lost her place by the window, but she is smiling. Her relatives returned and were angry that she gave up the seats. And still she smiles.

Sandeep whispers to her.

We are all afraid of dying in pain, or becoming poor, or worse, being tossed on the street once a widow. Should I make an offering to Shiva? Beneficent Protector. Or to the goddess Durga for you?

Durga,
she whispers back.

Shall I offer a garland of marigolds? My own mother loves the scent.

She nods.

See how well life works when we work together?

(See how well we trade on our fears.)

The old woman laughs. Pats his knee. Leans back her head and closes her eyes. She thinks she got the better deal.

Eight hours is too long without a window, Maya. You'll see. You'll be more comfortable.

He did it for me.

(See how well we trade on our passions.)

Discovered

The conductor in the dark uniform walks briskly up the aisle. A man at his side is vibrating with anger.

Shit,
Sandeep mutters.
Why couldn't this train leave on time?

Do you see?
the angry man says.
It's a young girl and a young boy. They were traveling together on the train from Barmer. Unmarried. Disgusting. I wasn't going to say anything, but now I must. They are on this train too!

I slink in my seat. Sandeep grips my hand and stands up. The old woman slides into his space.

See, see. Just a boy. And the girl is beside him. The one without hair. She is a disgrace. She looks like a widow.

So this is how we'll be discovered! By a man who feels entitled to his condemnation! The passenger who rode shirtless, the Brahman with the sacred thread. The mark of a superior caste.

This cannot be tolerated. As the conductor of this train you must do something!

Sandeep faces the two men. The Brahman is purple with fury. The conductor scratches at his miniature moustache. Checks his watch.

And then I see a woman coming up the aisle. A bird. Blue. Coloured like a peacock. She pushes past the conductor to get to Sandeep.

Brother!
she laughs, gathering Sandeep into her arms. She reaches for me.
And little brother. I'm so glad you haven't left. Or I would have lost the chance to wish you well. Father called to say he thought you'd be transferring to Delhi. He wanted to make sure you hadn't missed the connection.

There will be peace

You know these young people?
the conductor asks.

Yes,
Parvati answers.
I am Dr. Patel, and my two brothers are traveling to Delhi to visit our auntie and uncle. In Connaught Circle.

It isn't true, sir,
the man argues.
I have heard them talk. They are a boy and girl running away. Can you not see she is a girl?

What do you know?
Parvati says.
Are you a doctor too?
She lifts up her black bag as a symbol of her earned caste.

Will you arrest them or not?
the man shouts.
For indecency.

What do you care?
asks the conductor.
Are they harming you other than your haughty Brahman morality?

Without moral order there is no society!

Without compassion, there is no moral order!
Parvati yells.

Enough!
the conductor shouts.
There will be peace here. You, sir, find another car to spread your gossip
in. You two, sit down, be quiet, offend no one. Yes, you do look like a girl, but who is to judge here and now? Not me. Now everyone, clear off. The train is about to leave. So if you don't have a ticket, Doctor, you must get off.

Parvati takes Sandeep's hands and lifts them to her lips.
You made a stone sing, brother
.

And then she hugs me, whispering,
You must be someone special to cause such a stir.

Sandeep and I watch her float out the car to the platform. Her thick black braid is draped over her shoulder She raises a hand to wave. Golden bracelets. The sound of ice tinkling against glass.

I didn't get the chance

To tell her.

My real name, Jiva.

Born in Canada.

How my Hindu mother taught me to believe that gods hear our pleas and may answer our prayers, if they choose.

How my Sikh father raised me to believe that by living an honest and good life, we are released from the birth and death cycle.

That I believe kindness and generosity is the karma we bring to other's souls. Not only our own.

And that a boy named Sandeep taught me. And his sister named Parvati.

Thank you.

Gone

The night swallows our escape and our voices. We dare not speak and arouse suspicion.

Sandeep sleeps. Dreamless.

No cries of despair.

I keep watch.

The train travels in darkness.

A shadowy serpent.

It's too hot in the car.

Not even a breeze sweeps through the open windows.

The passengers are uncomfortable.

Temperatures rise. Flesh swells.

Voices murmur in sleep.

A single question seared to tongues.

It's true. You look like a girl,
a voice whispers.
Who are you?

Too dark to be Canadian.

Too tall for a girl.

Too pretty for a boy.

I can speak three languages.

English. Hindi. Punjabi.

(And sometimes French.)

But who am I?

Always the foreigner.

Hiding in her skin.

Whispers in the dark

I know who you are.

Go back to sleep, Sandeep. We're not there yet.

You're the light, the jiva that fills the empty space.

Shhh, Sandeep.

Akbar had whispered in the dark too.

You can tell me. I'll keep your secret. Tell me what happened to your hair. Tell me your shame. No? Well, maybe you've forgotten. But not to worry. I won't hold it against you. You're one of us now. A desert dweller. An exile.

Where is the place?

I do not sleep while the moon crosses the sky.

I am watching for the place.

Where another train stopped.

And waited.

White clouds spilling from the stack.

Unscheduled patience for the crimes to begin.

Will I know it?

Where the track curved?

The field and its stench?

Smell the certain death?

What my heart cannot bear and cannot erase?

I listen to the wheels tapping the track.

Click. Click. Click.

A clock counting backward.

Click. Click.

Where?

Click.

Here?

Cli-ck.

Is this where the wolves came?

Hurry!

They are coming through the door.

Don't slow down!

Gasoline on fear-chilled skin.

Don't stop!

A match leaps to life.

In the middle of nowhere.

Hair burning orange.

In the middle of nowhere!

Eyebrows singed.

Not this field!

Eyelashes gone.

Not this field!

The frozen tongue.

No!

The silent scream.

His tears turn to steam.

Still in the eye.

December 7–8, 1984

New Delhi

The city is shrouded with amnesia.

A tattered veil of forgetfulness.

Four weeks ago I left my mother's ashes in a hotel room.

I left my hair coiled on a tiled floor.

I left my father in a city mad with hatredwhile the Indian government looked the other way.

Citizen killed citizen in a fashion so organized it's hard not to think the attack was planned for months before.

Yet, four weeks later what is different? Fewer turbans? But who is noticing?

On the streets of New Delhi, who is concerned? Who even remembers?

I question the face of every man I walk by.

Was it you? Were you a part of this?

Did you take a man's life? His breath? His dreams?

Or did you stand by and do nothing?

The shame

I don't understand, Sandeep.

Where is the shame for what happened on these streets?

Why is the city not on its knees?

The masses asking for forgiveness?

Crawling to temples with offerings in their mouths?

Maya, we are a nation with a long history and short memories. We are a nation accustomed to pain.

Connaught Circle

Have you seen this man?
Sandeep shouts into the street. A
nyone?
He waves my father's passport.

The crowd slides around him like he's a rock in a river.

We are looking for Amar Singh!

Women touch their jewelry. Hands press into prayer. The men shrink, but not all. Some stare at Sandeep as if to say, Who are you to ask? Why do you bring it up again? We've already forgotten, so do not come here and remind us what has passed. It's over. Forget. Like us.

Amar Singh is missing! His daughter is looking for him!

And there it is. A glimmer of something. Shifting eyes. The nervous ringing of hands.

Do you know him?
I call.

The man runs for an alley.
I know nothing! No one knows anything! Now get away from me!

His shouting brings a police officer pushing through the crowd.

You are missing someone? asks the policeman. So what? You think you're the only one? Let me see that passport. Your Amar Singh is a foreigner now so go to the consulate. Or go to the refugee camps; maybe he's there. But go away and quit stirring things up.

Thanks
, Sandeep says angrily. He grabs my arm and starts to pull me down the street.
And on behalf of all the murdered Sikhs, thanks for nothing!

You bhenchod little shit . . .

And we're gone.

A plan

Sandeep holds my hands in his. To quiet me.
Shhh. Try to stop shaking, Maya.

I can't. I can't. I am too afraid.

Maya? Listen to me.

We'll make a plan.

That will make it easier.

A checklist.

You'll see. A plan will help.

Okay.

Sandeep's list:

Rama Hotel

Mr. Kiran Sharma

Canadian consulate

Refuge camp

Hospitals

Chandigarh

No! Not Chandigarh! Never!

It's okay, Maya. It's okay.

A kiss.

I will breathe for both of us.

A kiss.

Okay?

That
is
better.

Rama Hotel

- What night?
asks the clerk.

- November 1,
says Sandeep.

- What night?

- November 1.

- We were closed for renovations.

- No, you weren't. It was the second night after the murder. The hotel was stormed by gangs.

- Oh, no. You are very mistaken. We had no gangs here. Next door, yes. The thugs almost burned the building to the ground. But not here. Not at the Rama Hotel. The staff would not allow it.

- You are a lying snake in the grass. Was it you who told them there were Sikhs in your hotel?

- Boy, do not accuse me of such things! Get out!
Get out now!

- Not until you answer some questions. I want to know what happened to the things in room 12 G.

- No things. There were no things in any room.

- In 12 G there was an urn.

- A what?

- An urn of ashes.

- No! No! We have no urns.

- A man may have come back for it. Some days later.

- No! No! No man. No urn.

- Where's your manager?

- No manager. He has gone for the day.

- Then call and tell him that if I don't find out what
happened to the urn in 12 G, I will tell every guest here that you've stolen a woman's ashes. And that her ghost is haunting the Rama Hotel.

- A ghost? No no no no. We want no ghost!

- Then tell me who came for the urn?