Homeless Bird (9 page)

“Mala,” I whispered, “it’s the wedding veil.”

“Of course. I took it to get back at the Shrew. Don’t look so shocked. You’re such a baby. Besides, Mr. Das doesn’t pay us half of what we’re worth.”

What would Mr. Das have said if he had seen me sitting in the room of the person who had stolen his phul-khana? Before I could get up to leave, Mala summoned a man to join us. “Here is a real artist for you to talk with,” she said. “Kajal, here is Koly, fresh from a village.” Mala left us to greet a girl who had just come into the room.

I did not see how I could run away without looking foolish. The artist, Kajal, was studying me. He had a catlike face with slanted eyes and a half smile. “I must paint you,” he said, looking as though he wished not so much to paint me as to devour me.

I tried to move away from him, but he took my arm and held on to me. “Those are my paintings on the walls,” he said. “What do you think of them?”

There was a scene of a dark forest with a tiger peering out from some trees. The tiger had the same half smile as Kajal, which made the man more frightening to me. I saw that he was no house cat to be tamed, but a malicious cat, even a dangerous one. The other painting was of Mala. Kajal had made her very beautiful. At the same time the expression on her face suggested that she and the artist shared an unpleasant secret. “I’ll make you look as beautiful as Mala,” he said. “You must come to my room on your day off.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I couldn’t.” Go to the room of a man! Maa Kamala would be horrified.

He held on more tightly to my arm. “You are no longer in a village now,” he said. “You are living in a city. You are with adults here. You must act like one. Have some bhang. It will relax you.”

I shook my head. I had passed bhang shops in the city. I knew bhang was made from marijuana leaves. “I have to go,” I said. “I’m already late.”

“You haven’t had anything to drink. Let me just get you something cool. Then you can leave. I can see you aren’t happy here.”

The music had stopped, and across the room I saw the sitar player watching us. He started across the room toward me, but Mala reached out and drew him away.

Kajal returned with a glass of lassi. The glass felt cool in my hands, and I smiled gratefully at Kajal. I drank the lassi down, anxious to get away. After a moment the room began to whirl, and I felt sick to my stomach. I saw the sitar player, an angry expression on his face, pulling away from Mala and hurrying toward me.

I was outside. It was dark. The sitar player was supporting me, and passersby were giving us curious looks. “Where do you live?”

“I live in Maa Kamala’s widows’ house, but I have to meet Tanu at the cinema around the corner. Who are you?”

“My name is Binu, and you are a very foolish girl. How did you get mixed up with that crowd?”

“I work with Mala. She asked me to come. Why am I so sick?”

“That animal, Kajal, was playing a trick on you. The lassi was laced with bhang. You’re lucky I was there. The sooner I hand you over to your friend, the better. I’m not a nursemaid to take care of every naïve village girl.”

As he propelled me toward the cinema, he grumbled, “You are no end of trouble.”

I saw how foolish I had been. I had disobeyed Maa Kamala because I was excited about going to Mala’s room. Now I hated Mala. I gritted my teeth and made fists of my hands trying to fight the tears. Little by little I began to calm down. “Why were you there?” I asked the sitar player.

“The boy playing the tabla invited me to come with him. It’s my first time with that crowd, and the last. Here is the cinema. That must be your friend.” With a sigh of relief he pushed me toward Tanu, who stood staring at us with wide eyes and an open mouth.

I turned to thank him, but he was hurrying across the street and didn’t look back.

“What happened to you?” Tanu asked. “You look upset.”

When I finally got all the story out, she said, “How can such wicked people be?”

We were nearly at the widows’ house. I stopped, afraid to face Maa Kamala. Tanu brought out her bit of mirror. “Comb your hair and wipe off the makeup. The kohl has run down on your cheeks. I’ll say something we ate in the cinema made you sick.”

I was sure Maa Kamala would see at once all that had happened and would make me leave the house.

“Let me do the talking,” Tanu said. To a worried Maa Kamala she explained, “It’s her stomach. It was the monkey nuts. We bought a whole paper full, and the greedy girl ate most of them.”

Maa Kamala put her arm around me, and the kindness brought out my tears. “Poor girl, I’ll fix some ginger water for you to sip. Then you must go to bed at once. If you’re not better in the morning, I’ll send a note to Mr. Das.”

I nodded gratefully, sure that nothing in the world would ever make me face Mala again.

Yet in two days’ time I was back at the workroom. I had a living to earn. Besides, even the thought of seeing Mala again could not keep me from my embroidery. On my first day back I would not look at Mala, but as soon as Mr. Das was out of the room, Mala whispered in my ear, “If you say anything about the veil, I’ll tell your precious Maa Kamala you came to my house and took bhang.” She gave me a sly smile. I moved hastily away from her, bending my head over my work so the Shrew, who was staring at us, would not see the look of anger on my face and become suspicious. I thought I would never be done with scolding myself for my foolishness, but the next day Raji returned.

He was waiting for me when I left the workshop. I was so pleased to see him that with no thought for modesty I reached for his hand. “When did you get back?”

“Last night. I went to Mr. Govind’s and Tanu sent me here. But I must return to my village very soon. I have to get the lentils planted in time for the rains next month.”

No sooner had he returned than I was to lose him again. “What about your rickshaw job?” I asked, hoping that might keep him here for a bit.

“I’m all finished with rickshaws. Koly, let’s go back to our place on the river. I want to talk to you.”

I was surprised at his request, but pleased at any chance to be with Raji. And he had called it “our place.”

As we walked along, I thought how the city had changed for me. When I had first come, the city had been unwelcoming, even treacherous, but now I had found my place in it. I had my work and friends. Still, I was never so happy as I had been with Raji, and I could not help but be sad at how soon he would leave me.

It was the dry season. We could see the muddy cradle of the banks through which the river ran. We settled on a patch of grass, and taking off our sandals, we swung our feet into the brown water. Behind us the deserted temple looked shabby. In the gloominess I could not help remembering my evening at Mala’s apartment and wondering what Raji would think of me if he knew of it.

Raji listened to my silence for a while and then said, “Something is troubling you.”

I nodded, unable to get out my words. Just then a heron flew over us and drifted down to the river’s edge. We stayed quiet to keep it there. I wondered if Raji, like me, was remembering the first time we had seen it. After it flew away, Raji said, “Why should we have secrets?”

The whole story of my evening at Mala’s came out in a flood of words.

Raji did not say at once that it was all right or that I was very foolish. He only looked out at the Yamuna River, which minded its own business. After a bit he said, “I would like to meet that Kajal. I would stamp him to pieces like the scorpion he is. I’m glad you told me, but that is in the past. I came back to the city to talk to you about what is ahead. My uncle has decided to rent half my land. With his money I can fix up my house. A man from the government is showing me how to make my land more fertile. Already the wheat I planted has pushed up. I want you to come back with me to my village. You would like it there. We have all the things that please you.”

Puzzled, I asked, “But what could I do in your village?”

Gazing down, Raji mumbled, “You would be my wife, of course.”

I stared at him. I had never imagined such a thing would be possible. I thought I must be dreaming. “But what of your family?” I managed to ask. “They wouldn’t want you to marry a widow; such a marriage is inauspicious. And you own land. You would have no trouble finding a wife who would bring you a dowry.”

Raji tore up some reeds and tossed them into the river. “I don’t want to marry a handful of rupees. Can I come to my house at the end of a day in the fields and talk with rupees? Can I bring up my children with rupees for a mother to watch over them? My maa and baap lived in the same house, but no word passed between them except when my maa offered a second helping of rice to Baap or my baap said the eggplants were wormy. I want to talk to my wife. I can talk to you.

“I have no family but my uncle and aunt. Surely I can make up my own mind. Anyhow, I have told them about you.” He grinned at me. “Besides, I have need to improve my reading, and no one in my family can read.”

I smiled back, but no words came. I could only sit there looking out across the river. The setting sun was turning the water from brown to gold. The first streaks of evening lay against the sky like a purple border on a blue sari. I had never thought of marrying again. I had known that Raji would make a fine husband for some lucky girl, but I could hardly believe that he had chosen me or that his family would accept me.

“At first,” Raji said, “we’d be poor, but I have fixed the house up so the rains can’t get in, and we would grow all the food we need on our land. My crop of okra and lentils will bring in money. There’s a well in the courtyard. If we have water and food and a roof over our heads, that is all we need.”

I still had not found words, and Raji studied me. “Maybe I should not have spoken. Maybe you do not care for me.”

I looked lovingly at Raji’s strong shoulders and brown skin and his foolish wayward hair, which he had tried to slick down with coconut oil. “I do care for you. I missed you when you were away. I was in the courtyard every evening looking for you.” He took my hand, and I did not pull it away. Had I not always been happy with Raji? I wanted to tell Raji yes, yes. But his asking had happened so quickly. And what of my embroidery at Mr. Das’s place, and my friends at Maa Kamala’s house? I could see myself in two places, with Raji and in Mr. Das’s workroom, but I could not see myself in just one place. “How could I give up my work?” I asked Raji. “What would I do?”

“You’ll have the house to care for and the marketing and cooking.” In a voice so quiet I could hardly hear him, he added, “And I suppose there will be children.” He ran his hand over his hair, ruffling what was already ruffled.

I could not forget my days with Sass. I saw myself once again sweeping a courtyard and carrying heavy jugs of water. Even without Sass the work would be hard, yet Raji and I would be there together. “I don’t know, Raji,” I managed to get out. “Perhaps we should wait a bit.”

In a disappointed voice he said, “You want to stay here and go to more parties at your friend Mala’s.”

“I don’t! I wish I hadn’t told you.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked miserable. “How long do you want to wait?”

I thought for a bit, trying to make out what this new life would be like. At last I said, “Not long.” When I saw the hurt look on his face, I couldn’t help asking, “If I don’t come right away, would you find another wife?”

“I have found the wife I want.” He pulled more reeds up until I thought that if we did not leave soon, there would be no reeds left along the Yamuna River.

“It’s late,” I said. “Maa Kamala will wonder where I am.”

“But you don’t say no.”

I shook my head. “I don’t say no. Give me a little time, Raji, and yes will come.” The pulling up of the reeds stopped and Raji took my hand again. He had a mournful look on his face. I reached up and smoothed his hair. “It is only for a short time, and I’ll write to you,” I promised. “Will you write to me?”

With a slow smile he said, “If you don’t treat my letters like a lesson and send them back with red marks.”

Each week a letter came from Raji. Some letters were no more than a few sentences, but some went on for many pages to tell me how the blossoms had come out on the lentils and how the water from his well was sweet and good tasting.

In one letter Raji wrote that he had planted a tamarind tree in the courtyard. “It says in the Vedas, ‘He who plants a tree will have his reward.’ How soon will my reward come?”

Often he told me of the birds he had seen, the hawks and falcons and once an eagle. In the evenings there were fireflies in the courtyard, and he could hear the cries of the nightjars as they circled overhead. Because Raji was a farmer, every letter told of the weather.

In my replies to Raji I told him how often I thought of him. I hardly ever mentioned the weather, for there didn’t seem to be much of it in the city. It was very hot or it wasn’t. The seasons were hidden behind all the houses and the traffic on the streets. Tanu and I had moved out of the widows’ house and now had a room of our own with only one small window and no courtyard. For us the weather had disappeared altogether.

We had left the widows’ house shedding tears and clinging to Maa Kamala. “You are women now and must make room for other widows here,” she gently chided us. “Only don’t forget us.” There were tears in her eyes as well.

As I saw the fearful looks of the widows who were to take our place, I realized how much things had changed for me. I had friends and a secure job, and now I had Raji. But if I married Raji, would I have to give up my friends? My work? I lay awake at night trying to sort it all out.

Tanu and I were proud of having our own place. We put pictures from old magazines on the wall and bought two charpoys and a small hot plate to cook on. The entrance to our building was off a narrow alley. Four families lived in our building, and we all shared a toilet and a faucet where we got our water and did our washing.

At first it was exciting to have a room of our own, but I soon tired of it. It was the beginning of May, and it seemed the monsoon would never come. There was no breath of air. Dust from the street covered everything. If I took my eyes from them, the walls of our room crept closer and closer to me until I thought I would suffocate. I could go up onto the roof, but the corrugated tin burned my feet. In the street there were a hundred other people breathing in the air I needed. There were no nightjars or fireflies or hawks to be seen. I began to long for Raji and his village.

I eagerly awaited his letters. The tamarind tree was doing well and one day would shade the courtyard. He had made shutters to keep out the rains when they came, and he was working on a surprise for me. Tanu teased me. “You will wear the letters out with all the folding and unfolding.”

At the workroom tempers were short because of the heat. There were arguments over the sharing of scissors or who was to have the place with the best light. Even the sheerest muslin lay hot and heavy on our laps. Mr. Das said we were behind schedule, and his customers were complaining. He was always scolding Mala, who was coming in later and later. She only tossed her head and spoke of how Mr. Gupta was after her to work for him.

It was on a day so hot that we had to wipe our sweaty hands on a cloth to keep them from soiling our work that Mala was fired.

One of the women was embroidering a wedding sari, coiling gold thread along its borders and fastening it with the tiniest stitches imaginable.

“You haven’t given me enough gold thread to finish the sari,” she complained to Mr. Das. All the gold thread was kept locked in a cupboard. Only Mr. Das had the key.

Mr. Das looked puzzled. “Yes, yes. You are mistaken. I put a new skein beside you only an hour ago. You have mislaid the thread,” he insisted. “That is no way to treat something so valuable. It must be somewhere. Look carefully.”

The woman stood up and shook out her clothes and the sari she was working on. In a puzzled voice she said, “There is no thread here.”

The Shrew was watching. She said, “Look in Mala’s purse.” There was a satisfied smirk on her face.

We all looked at Mala. She snatched at her purse, but before she could reach it, Mr. Das had it in his hand and was opening it. Mala sprang at him, shrieking that he had no business with her property. As she grabbed the purse, the skein of gold thread fell out. No one made a sound.

“You are finished here,” Mr. Das said, breaking the silence. “Go and work for Gupta. It will bring him nothing but trouble.”

I was angry with Mala and disgusted with her stealing. Yet a part of me was sorry for her. All her beauty and cleverness were wasted. What had happened to her was like the breaking of a fine vase.

That evening, to forget the scene with Mala, I convinced Tanu to walk down to the river where Raji and I had gone. I was missing Raji more each day and thought seeing the river would bring him closer.

As I had hoped, the thoughts of Mala began to fade. But Tanu was a city girl, and all the open space around the river made her nervous, so we soon returned to our little room. A part of me returned, but much of me stayed with the river and the kingfisher and the heron and the memories of my times there with Raji.

In June a letter came from Raji with wonderful news. “My surprise is finished,” he wrote. “I have built a little room in the house you can keep just for your embroidering. It has two big windows so you have the sun up and down. From one window you will see the courtyard and the tamarind tree. From the other window you will see the fields where I work.”

It was not only the room that brought tears to my eyes but the idea of a room for me taking shape in Raji’s mind, and then being built with his hands. My last doubts about the marriage flew from me like a flock of birds starting up from a field to be lost in the distance.

I thought often of the room Raji had built for me. There would be no sound of automobiles or motorcycles or buses. Instead, I would hear the rustle of the leaves of the tamarind tree and the sound of the birds that nested there. I would put up white muslin curtains that would flutter when the breezes blew across the fields. My son would be in the fields helping Raji. My daughter would sit beside me in the room, a small scrap of cloth and a needle and thread in her hand.

Once again I began a quilt for my dowry. My first quilt was stitched as I worried about my marriage to Hari, the second in sorrow at Hari’s death. Chandra’s quilt was stitched to celebrate her happiness. This time as I embroidered, I thought only of my own joy. “When it’s finished,” I wrote Raji, “we’ll be married.” In the middle of the quilt, spreading its branches in all directions, I put a tamarind tree to remind me of the tree in my maa and baap’s courtyard and the tree in the home I was going to. I stitched Mr. Das, Mrs. Devi, Maa Kamala, and Tanu. There was even a place on the quilt for Mala, though I had heard she was no longer at Mr. Gupta’s. I stitched a rickshaw and Raji in the fields and me embroidering in the room Raji had made for me. Around the quilt for a border I put the Yamuna River, with reeds and herons beside it.

One day I confided my plans to Mr. Das. I knew there were women who sent their work in to him and hoped I might do the same. At first Mr. Das was distressed at my news, but soon his black eyes flashed with excitement.

“Why should you not be happy with your husband and home?” he said. “I remember the boy waiting for you outside the store. Very polite boy. Full of energy. I could tell that from the way he paced back and forth. With such a husband you will never go hungry. But Koly, you must not stop your work. Does he understand that?”