Homeless Bird

  My only sadness was Raji’s absence. Each evening I waited in the courtyard hoping he would appear, hungry and eager to open a book. Each evening I was disappointed. At last I had to admit to myself that he had probably returned to his village and was looking for a suitable bride. Still, I could not keep myself from hoping I would see him again.

  Sitting beside them each day in the workroom, I got to know the other women, who soon became my friends. The surprise was that they did not judge me by my age, but by my work. The older women laughed at some of my designs, but their laughter was kind. “Your designs are so original, they surprise us,” one of them explained.

  In the workshop scarfs and cushions as well as saris were embroidered. One woman kept a critical eye on my work and the work of the others. She always noticed when our threads became tangled or work had to be ripped out and done over. If we used too much thread, she reported it to Mr. Das. Because of her long sharp nose, which she was always sticking into the business of the other women, she was called the Shrew.

  The Shrew shook her head over my work. “Who will buy such a sari? Women want what they are used to, not some outlandish thing.”

  “No, no,” Mr. Das said. “My ladies are always asking for something new and different.” He was a good-tempered man and treated us all kindly. He took an interest in our lives and would give time off if a woman was wanted at home for a child or a husband’s sickness. Some women were even allowed to do all their work at home.

  Only once had I seen him angry. A phul-khana, a wedding veil of fine silk and embroidered in gold thread, disappeared overnight. The phul-khana was meant for the daughter of a wealthy customer, and Mr. Das could hardly stand still with frustration. The embroidery had been done by the Shrew. Though her words were harsh, her stitches were deftly done. The scarf with its gold and silver moon and stars had been admired by all of us. She was as furious as Mr. Das at its disappearance. Mr. Das put new locks on our doors and windows and began to pay an old man to watch the workroom at night.

  I began to confide in one of the younger women. Mala was nineteen, only two years older than I was, but she looked older. She was tall and as slim as a bamboo shoot. Her eyes were heavily outlined with kohl. Her long, tapered fingers with their bright-red nails pulled the threads in and out, stitching designs so intricate and clever, they took my breath away. Young as she was, Mr. Das entrusted her with embroidering threads of real gold. The Shrew was jealous of Mala and complained to Mr. Das that Mala often arrived late in the morning.

  When Mr. Das scolded Mala for her tardiness, Mala only laughed. “Don’t lecture me, Mr. Das,” she would say in a taunting voice. “Your competitor, Mr. Gupta, down the street, stops me every day to beg me to work for him.” Mr. Das would grow silent, for he couldn’t bear the thought of Mala’s clever fingers at work on Mr. Gupta’s saris.

  Often a young man would be waiting to walk home with Mala, but sometimes Mala would let me walk home with her, for her room was not far from the widows’ house.

  When Mala heard I was living at Maa Kamala’s she said, “I know the place. How can you stand that old woman? She won’t let you out of her sight. It’s worse than a prison. Come and spend a night with me and see how delicious freedom is.” I should have objected to the way she spoke of Maa Kamala, but I was anxious to be Mala’s friend. I longed to accept her invitation, for I had heard from the other women in the workshop that Mala’s room was often crowded with artists and musicians.

  When I asked permission of Maa Kamala, she was indignant. “I know all about Mala. Her room is no place for a young girl. Certainly you cannot spend the night there.”

  “Just for a few hours then? I won’t spend the night.”

  “No! Not while you are under my roof.”

  For the first time, I was angry with Maa Kamala. After our evening meal I whispered my plan to Tanu. “I’ll say we’re going to the cinema together. I’ll give you the money for your ticket,” I told her, “and enough for two lemonades.”

  Tanu was as eager as I was to hear about Mala’s place. “All right, but don’t be late. I can’t sit in the cinema forever.”

  I borrowed Tanu’s lipstick and kohl, waiting until I was out of the house to apply them while Tanu held a small mirror for me. I left her buying her ticket for the movie and hurried quickly toward Mala’s place.

  It was only when I reached the narrow dark stairway that led to Mala’s room that I dragged my feet. What would a girl like me from a small village have to say to such clever city people? I wished I were safely with Tanu in the dark cinema sipping lemonade.

  It was the music that drew me. The sound drifted down the back stairway and pulled me up the stairs toward it.

  The door to the room was open. After a minute or two I gathered my courage and stepped inside. There were a dozen people there, as many men as women. It was the first time I had ever been with such a mixed group. I thought how horrified my maa would have been to see me in this room where men and women mingled. In the middle of the room were two men, one playing a sitar and the other a tabla. The fingers of the sitar player traveled up and down the strings like clever mice. The tabla player followed the notes of the sitar like a shadow.

  Mala came to welcome me, leading me into the room. One or two of the guests gave me a curious glance. Mala pulled me down beside her on a cushion and turned her attention to the players. I glanced hastily about the room. Most of the women were older than Mala; at least with their sophisticated hairdos and makeup they looked older. A few of them wore jeans and T-shirts instead of saris or salwars and kameezes. Except for the musicians, who wore kurta pajamas, the rest of the men were also in jeans and T-shirts. They were talking and laughing together, paying little attention to the music.

  There were real paintings on the wall and a rug on the floor. There was a faint odor of incense and something else that smelled sweet. I could see that Mala had electricity; there were two lamps in the room. To soften their glare, veils had been thrown over the shades. One veil was a pale blue, and its puddle of light was turned into blue shadow. The veil on the other lamp cast a pattern of moons and stars onto the ceiling. I looked again. It was Mr. Das’s missing phul-khana. There could not have been another like it.

  “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 he
ad. 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.

  eleven

  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.”
r />   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.”