Chapter 6
Crying In the Rain

When the eight-year-old girl heard her name, she dashed for the nook behind the bed and crouched there. When the door opened, she closed her eyes and hid her face between her knees and chanted, Ramji Ramji Ramji Ramji. Her rhythm broke when she felt a cold wooden stick being poked against her face. She tried to chant again but the sharp pain she felt above her eye from the second poke made it hard.
“Come out,” shouted Amma.
A third poke.
“Haramzadi, are your coming out or you want me to kill you right there?”
A silence followed, which was disturbed by a screeching sound of the moving of the bed. She looked up and saw light staring at her in the face. Amma wrung her ears and pushed her head against the bed, and said, “Haramzadi, what were you doing near that tree?”
“Amma, nothing.”
“Nothing? Tell me, or I’ll break your legs. You have blackened my face today. Tell me what were you doing?”
“Amma, I was just playing. Nothing else.”
“Talking to trees and you call it just playing, huh? Haramzadi, do you know what happened? Mohit saw you talking to the tree and he told the whole basti about it. All the women were laughing at me, and some even had the guts to say, ‘Show her to a tantric and get rid of the ghosts.’ Do you know how ashamed I was feeling? Tell me the truth, was Mohit right?”
She wiped her tears and looked at Amma.
Amma gave a muffled cry and said, “So Mohit was right. I will kill you today.”
She lay on the floor, curled up, while Amma pounded the baton on her body frenziedly. A silence followed, interrupted only by her sporadic snivels. She heard a sob, which was not hers, and then the sound of the baton being thrown on the ground. When the pain eased a bit, she opened her eyes and saw Amma sitting on the floor in front of her, her face streaked with faint tear marks, her fingers pressing her eyes. She was muttering, “Why don’t you listen to me my child, why? Why are you ruining your life? Why?”
“Amma,” she said through her tearful face, “why do you beat me? I have not done anything. I was only playing with it. Why don’t you beat those people? I didn’t do anything. They even pull down my skirt down in the market and laugh at me and keep calling me, “Mad, mad”. But I don’t do anything. I wanted to throw stone at them and bite them. But I didn’t do anything because you say. Why don’t you beat them?”
“Why don’t you understand my child, why don’t you understand? I know those people are animals. But didn’t I tell you to stay away from them? They just want to prove you are mad, just like you Baba. It gives them pleasure.
I am working day and night to save for your dowry. Even I have dreams of seeing my daughter in her wedding dress—but you will ruin everything. Why will anybody marry a mad girl? Why? They will throw stones at you and call you mad. Mad. Like your Baba. Nobody will marry you. Nobody.”
She looked at Amma’s wretched, tearful face, and said wiping Amma’s tears with her fingers, “Amma, don’t cry. Amma, I am sorry. Very sorry.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down.
Amma slapped her.
“What will this ‘sorry’ get you now?”
Amma wrung her ears and rammed her head against the bed and kept slapping her. Amma’s bangles broke, some shards of which dug in her flesh.
“Why didn’t you die the day you were born,” Amma said. “Why? You are nothing but a curse on me. A curse. You never listen to me—you never try to understand things. My parents told me to kill you when you were born. But I didn’t. I loved you, I brought you up, but I was wrong. I should have thrust sand in your nose the day you were born. Why didn’t I do it!”
Amma released her hand from her ears. She lay down, curled up and sobbed. Amma went out. A fire was burning inside her. Fire of Anger. She cried and cried and cried but the fire didn’t extinguish; the flames leapt up with every tear, searing her from inside.
Nandu, her puny five-year-old brother was peeping from behind the door. He could see her lying on the floor, her face covered with her hair, the sound of her sobs filling the air with gloom. He came in and squatted in front of her, and kept the glass of water on the floor and gently pushed it towards her. She looked up at him through the tears. He was looking at her like a curious little kid looks at an unfamiliar insect; his head was bent at an angle, the light shone in his eyes, and his lips were wry, as if he could feel the pain. She raised her hand in the air, as if to hit him. He fell back and his head rammed on the door. He went out.
When Amma came in an hour later, she was still lying on the floor. Amma sat besides her and passed her fingers through her hair. She jerked away Amma’s hand and uttered a grunt. Amma sat still for a minute, looking at her.
Amma said, “Forgive your Amma.”
She started sobbing loudly.
Amma said, “Look up.”
She didn’t look up, because if she did, she knew she would melt.
“Please forgive your Amma. Look, I am holding my ears also. Forgive me, my child.”
She screeched and started banging her head on the floor.
Amma placed her palm between the ground and her head and said in a tearful voice, “No my child, don’t. Forgive me, please. Beat me if you want, I wont complain.”
She raised her head and looked up into Amma’s eyes; they were as wet as hers. Her anger faded away somewhere. Like always. She never knew where. She dragged her body forward and kept her head in Amma’s lap.
Amma caressed her hand and said, “Your Amma is so bad. She is a devil. When you go up, complain to God about her. Tell Him that she was a bad mother and she used to beat you—”
“No Amma, no.”
“No, my child, do tell him. Tell Him she was so bad to you. Tell Him to beat her with whips and throw her in hell.”
“Amma, no. Amma you won’t go to hell. No, you won’t go.”
Amma cradled her lap and said after some time in a calm voice, “This world is very harsh. If people think you are mad like your Baba, then who will marry you?”
“But Amma I am not mad.”
“I know my child, I know. And I know you were just playing with the tree. But people don’t understand this. It is because of Mohit’s family that your Baba is in this condition; just because of an old family feud. Now they are searching for clues—they want to prove to the world that you are mad, so that no one can marry you. Amma is just trying to save you. When Amma beats you, it hurts her more then it hurts you. But what can Amma do? She is also helpless. If you don’t listen to her, how will you get married?
Now, promise me, you won’t ever go in that area. Promise me you won’t even go beyond Ramlal’s shop.”
“Promise.”
“Good girl. If you listen to me, you will get married in a good place. I want to see you in a wedding dress and then I can die peacefully.”
“No Amma, you won’t die. Amma, no, I won’t let you.”
“No, my child, every body has to die one day.”
“No” she shrieked and burst into fresh tears.
Amma wiped her tears with her pallu and said, “OK baba, I won’t die. Now, I have made parathas, you want to eat?”
“No.”
“Why no? You have eaten only one apple since morning. And because of you I have also not eaten. We both will eat together. I will feed you with my own hands. Wait here, I’ll get the plate.”
Before going out, Amma bend down and thrust a one-rupee note in her hands, and whispered, “Buy nankhatai with this.”

After Amma had gone to Vasant Colony for cleaning the utensils, she beckoned Nandu, who was sitting in his underwear and shirt near the tulsi plant. Nandu put the insect he was surveying in his shirt pocket and ran after her.
She turned back and called out, “Nandu, run fast.”
His speed was slow as he took short steps and ran with his eyes firmly fixed on the ground for impediments. He uttered a feeble cry. She turned back and waited for him. He made his way over the boulders and rocks, and tightly clutched her skirt when he reached her. She held his hand and they ran towards the deserted garden behind the Municipal Corporation building. Baba was sitting cross-legged on a platform, under the tree, looking at the ground, drowned in deep, deep contemplation; the cotton thread tied around his ear waved in the air. She and Nandu went and sat besides him. Baba raised a hand in the air and moved his index finger rhythmically, as if doing a sum. He turned towards Nandu, who was watching him with utter concentration and opened his mouth to speak something. His mouth remained opened, as if he was about to make a grave point of observation and someone had rudely interrupted him. He rubbed away with his palm the sum he was doing in the air and patted Nandu’s back—at which Nandu almost fell off the platform—and said, “Hello, Nandi, how are you?”
Nandu looked at his sister. She said, “But Baba, he is Nandu, not Nandi.”
Baba’s eyes lost their mirth and again became clouded with confusion; he withdrew his hand, as if Nandu had at once become a child unfamiliar and strange.
Baba said, “But why do you change his name every week?”
“No, Baba, we don’t. His name was always Nandu.”
Baba looked at Nandu, then at her, and then at Nandu. He took out the small steel box from the sack kept near his feet. He once searched for newborn mice in the trash mounds and placed them in this box. He would look at the little, wriggling, pink bodies from the air-holes and say, “They look so happy.” He felt they were wriggling out of happiness, and to spread more happiness, stuffed more of them in. For mysterious reasons, he released them one day. He then started collecting a different thing in it.
He brought the box closer to her and Nandu, like a magician about to perform a trick, and said, “Very very cold air inside. I caught it in winter.” Baba slowly opened the lid and said, “Ah! So cold!”
“Yes Baba, very cold,” she said.
Nandu looked confused.
Baba raised the box up and snapped it shut, like he had caught a mosquito. He clasped it by his chest and quickly tied a string around it, and said, “I have caught hot air. Now we will open it in winter.” Nandu looked at the air-holes, and then at Baba, and then at air-holes. He scratched his head and was about to say something, when Baba kept the box back in his sack.
“What is this?” Baba said looking at the nankhatai she had held out to him.
“Baba, this is nankhatai. Eat it.”
She gave two pieces to Nandu. Baba surveyed the brown square pieces on his paper and then licked them.
“Baba,” she said, “you have to eat it. Like this.”
Baba reluctantly ate it.
She kept a piece from her paper to Nandu’s paper. He looked at her for clarification, and when he got none, continued eating. When one piece was left, he neatly wrapped it in the paper and kept in his pocket. He looked at his pocket in dismay, for the insect was gone. He took out a golden wrapper and unfolded it. Inside was a piece of Cadbury, not larger than a shirt button. He promptly held it towards her. She shook her head. He held it towards Baba.
“No Nandini, you eat it.”
Nandu started at Baba for a brief period, and then ate it. Suddenly, he pulled at Baba’s kurta and said, “Baba, Baba, see.”
He kept his leg on the platform and searched for something on it.
He found it. “Here Baba, here it is. I fell down yesterday. So I got hurt here.”
Nandu kept his little fingertip precisely on the wound—which was itself not larger than his fingertip. Baba chewed his nankhatai and looked at Nandu; his lips were bent downwards and his forehead had crinkled. Then he took another bite, chewed it and looked at the wound, which also looked crinkled. Then Baba looked at Nandu’s forehead. Then he looked at the wound, and blew air on it. Then he looked at Nandu’s forehead and blew air on it. Nandu put his leg down, content with the first blow and puzzled by the second. He talked to Baba about the various insects he had collected from the rocks near his house, and also told him that he had seen a double-decker dog yesterday.
Not much later, while she was licking the traces of nankhatai from her fingers, Nandu was giving his pocket a forlorn search for the insect and Baba was contemplating, the word “Paagal” slit the tranquillity of the evening as if by a scythe. They all looked around. A stone hit Baba and he uttered a loud cry.
She went to Baba and tried to soothe him.
She shouted, “Who is it?”
Another stone hit him. He was now weeping.
She stepped down from the platform, picked up a stone and looked around. A voice came from behind the bush, “Oye pagalni,” and then giggles. She said Saaley Kuttay, and threw the stone at the bush. A stone hit her on the head and she fell back. She wiped her nose and tears with her skirt, stood up and started picking and throwing stones frenziedly at the bush, shouting after each stone, “Kutteykaminayharamzaadey Kutteykaminayharamzaadey” One more stone hit her but she didn’t stop. The giggles died from behind the bush. She stopped. The stone was clutched in her hand, dried leaves and pebbles were tangled with her hair, her face was covered with marks of tears and dirt stuck to it, and her little chest was rapidly rising and falling. She wiped her tears with her palm ran back to the tree. Baba had tightly clutched Nandu’s hand and was sobbing.
She tugged at Baba’s grip and said, “Leave him, Baba.”
Baba loosened his grip after she bit his hand with her teeth. She picked up Nandu and back home. Fortunately, Amma hadn’t arrived till then. Amma had strictly forbidden them to talk to Baba, to meet him or to even look at him when they passed by him in the market. When Amma had seen her talking to Baba last year, she was whipped with a belt.
She and Nandu were sitting on their respective cots in the kitchen, and Amma was taking morsels of rice between her fingers and feeding them one by one. It was Nandu’s chance when they heard a knock on the door. Amma leaned back to see who it was when Nandu leapt forward and ate the rice from between Amma’s fingers. Amma told them to eat by their own and she went to the door. The telegram announced that Amma’s father had died. Amma hurriedly did some packing and went to her village with Nandu on a bus. Due to the lack of funds, she was to stay with Amma’s friend.
Amma returned three days later, at six in the morning. With Nandu in her hands, she went to the well to drink water. She noticed Nandu was staring at the peepul tree, where Baba was sleeping. “Nandu,” she said, “don’t look there.” Amma did not look at Baba for more than a second, but that was enough for her to know that her daughter as also sleeping next to him. The women who had come to fill water from the wells were looking at Amma; their eyes swollen with pity. She was sleeping within an arm’s distance of Baba; the dirt and mud stuck to her face, legs, fingers but not interfering with their calmness and serenity, her palms joined together and kept under her head like a pillow, a tiny smile on her face that seemed to say, ‘Don’t disturb! I am watching a good dream.’ Next to them lay a paper plate and spoons that smelled of last night’s chutney. Behind them, a board read, ‘Mad House. Do No Disturb.’ Amma threw the packet of rice she had brought on her face. The serenity evaporated from her face. She opened her little eyes and had brought her hand to rub them, when Amma held it and dragged her across the ground. A voice bellowed in the air, “Arre, why do you leave this creature in the open, huh?”
The payal unclipped from her feet. She cried, “Amma, my payal, my payal. Wait.”
But Amma didn’t wait. She saw as the payal slowly drifted away, and was soon just a fleck of whiteness in the brown morning dust. When they reached home, Amma pushed her towards the tap. She said, holding her bleeding lip, “Amma, no Amma, I’m hurt.”
“Haramzadi, why did you go and sleep there? I told you not to go that side of the basti, didn’t I?”
“Amma, those people made me sleep alone. But I can’t sleep alone, I’m afraid.”
“You slept there daily?”
“Yes, Amma, but I was afraid. I can’t sleep alone.”
Amma picked up the metal bucket and threw it on her, and said “I will kill you today.” The sharp rim hit on her head and she fell on the ground. “Amma, no.” She tried to stand up and run away; but the thick film of tears had made it hard to see: she collided with the tap and fell back. “Amma, no,” she cried. She tried to stand up but something hit hard against her thighs. She saw Amma was holding something in her hands. The bat with which she beats wet clothes. She heard Nandu’s cries. Another blow; this time on her back. She coughed; her red sputum fell on the ground. The next blow made face fall flat on the red liquid. She heard a sound of banging, but felt no pain. She turned her head. Amma was banging her head on the wall. Nandu was crying on the doorway. “Amma, no,” she cried and dragged herself near Amma and held her feet. She stood up with the support of her Amma’s legs and tried to pull away Amma from the wall. But Amma kept hitting herself. She shrieked, “Amma no, Amma no.” She went between Amma and the wall and tried to push her away, but no avail. “Nandu,” she cried, “Nandu help me. Amma beating herself. Nandu come.” But Nandu didn’t come.
Amma cried, “I want to die. I don’t want to see my own daughter being admitted to a mental hospital.”
“No Amma, no. Get away from wall. I’m sorry.” Amma kicked her. But she stood up again and held Amma’s feed and tried to pull her off the wall. Amma rested her forehead against the wall, and wailed.
Amma said, “Now I feel I have started believing people. Perhaps my daughter really is mad. It’s all because of me. Me. Why didn’t I die before I gave birth to you?”
“No Amma, no. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.”
Amma turned back and saw her daughter coughing out red sputum and trying to say sorry, holding her earlobes, her feet red with bat marks, squatting up and down. Amma held her hand and pushed her in the room and closed the gate from outside. Amma’s loud, painful wails seemed to linger in the air like a dying bird with feathers of pain. She cried, “Amma no, Amma, don’t cry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.” But Amma cried. She stood on the stool and looked out from the opening in the wall. Amma had crouched near the gate. “Amma, sorry. Sorry, Amma. Forgive me.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down on the stool. But Amma still cried. Her feet shook with pain; she sat down on the stool. Then she heard Amma’s curses. She stood up and looked out. Amma was standing near the main gate, hollering abuses at some men, who were laughing at some distance.
The air was filled with the silence of a ransacked graveyard, but Amma’s wails still echoed in her ears. She now clawed her ears and twisted them and tried to pull them off; but they remained, and so did the wails in them. She was a devil, causing misery to everyone, including her own mother, her Amma. She remembered how the women would taunt Amma, telling her to throw to her daughter in the well to ward off the evil shadow, and how Amma would hold her and Nandu’s hands and walk away, saying nothing, with just tears rolling down. At home she would hide behind the gate, thinking Amma would throw her in the well, and when Amma saw her, she would cry and say, Amma please don’t throw me in the well; and Amma would wipe her tears, hug her, and feed her with her own hands and tell her that she is a piece of her heart and no one can throw her piece of heart in the well. How much Amma loved her. How much. Amma should have thrown her in the well. She was the reason for Amma’s tears. She felt like she was a mistake, a sin, whom Amma bore for years, without complaining. Amma worked so hard – from seven in the morning till nine in the night – washing utensils, cleaning floors, sweeping streets; and all this to feed her. Feed her. Feed a mistake. And that too with her with her own hands, never complaining when she bit it, never telling her to work in tea shops like other mothers do; loving her, loving again, and again, and more, loving a mistake. Amma even said she wished she had enough money to send her to school. She saw the tear of a failed dream in Amma’s eyes then. How much Amma wanted to give her. How much. She now clawed her face with her little fingers; red lines of pain formed. How much. She now rammed her fist on the wall. When she would wake up in sleep and start crying, Amma would make her sleep in her lap and then all the fears all the worries all the pains would go away, whoosh, like a rocket that never was; Amma would sing lullaby for her and tell her that she is her moon. A small piece of herself. Her world. Her everything. Amma never ever said she was a mistake. Never ever. The tears had now formed a small puddle on the ground. Poisonous tears. Tears shed by a mistake. Why did Amma love a devil so much? Why? More tears now fell in the puddle. Amma hit her only for her good. Her good. Only because Amma wanted her to get married and live a good life. More tears fell. And more. And then more. Amma would say, I will give you a red saree on your wedding, and you will look like a princess in it. She now picked up the stone and brought it down on her hand. Amma wanted to give so much to her daughter. She again brought down the stone and grunted with pain. So much. Again the stone came down, and then again. So much. And then once more. She felt something burning inside her. Fire. She fretted her teeth. Her tongue tasted the sweet blood. She was giving pain to the person because of whom Amma was crying. The flames leapt up. She clenched her hair and tried to pull them off. She banged her head on the floor. The fire seared her. She looked at her hands, hands of a mistake - she hated the design of her fingers, her red skin, her flesh, the sound of her cries, her existence. She the held her fingers between her teeth and bit them. Pain. Consoling pain. She was biting Amma’s miseries; biting a devil, biting a mistake. She turned her head and saw Nandu’s face in the window. He was trying to keep the glass of water on the sill. She leapt up towards him and held his wrist and pulled it. The glass fell down and he winced in pain. She bit his palm with her teeth. He started crying. She clutched his warm, shivering, fragile neck. She pushed his head from the window; he fell down from the stool he was standing on and ran back in the house. Seeing him cry, wince in pain, the fire ebbed, but only for a second. Now it leapt up again; with sound and with fury. She wasn’t able to breathe. She shrieked. The fire was in her throat. She clenched her throat and pressed it; she wanted to kill self. She liked the pain. Sweet pain. Soothing Pain. She gasped for breath, coughed, cried. She coughed, coughed again, coughed more. She wanted the blood to come out. She wanted the life to come out. The tears didn’t seem to dry up; they kept coming.
Amma opened the door two hours later.

It was two in the night when she opened her eyes, drew aside the blanket and crept in darkness towards the trunk. She spread her blanket on the floor, and quietly opened the large trunk. An assortment of smells burst forth, like a secret anxiously waiting inside, pervading the dull darkness of the night with a strange feeling of joy. Smell of a little boy who followed a little girl even before he knew who she was. Smell of a boy who loved before he knew the laws. Smell of a mother whose lap promised a sleep without nightmares. Smell of a mother who smelt like love. Smell of a love that always spilled beyond its boundaries. Smell of a love that never made you search old memories for happiness. Smell of a house where three people cried if one got hurt. Smells that she had grown up smelling. Smells she was smelling for the last time.
She turned back; Amma and Nandu were sound asleep. The trunk was divided by plyboards into three compartments; above each it was inscribed with a brick, ‘Amma’, ‘Nandu’, and ‘Neetu’ respectively. As she felt the rough cloth of her green dress, a dimpled smile came on her face. She kept it on the blanket along with the red dress and her undergarments, all of which Amma had washed the day before and neatly folded in the morning. She looked at Amma’s compartment – barren, dull. The smile shrunk from her face. She opened the wooden box from her compartment – a small Ponds cream, a comb hiding from dust inside its plastic wrap, a packet of bindis. She looked at the large comb with broken teeth in Amma’s compartment. She kept her comb and her bindi packet in Amma’s compartment and kept Amma’s large comb on her blanket. After a minute of thinking, she kept the Ponds cream also in Amma’s compartment. From her savings box, she kept a ten-rupee note over Amma’s saree and the rest on her blanket. She kissed the words ‘Amma’ and ‘Nandu’ and quietly closed the trunk. She kept aside her Hot Wheels car, her only toy, and knotted the blanket. She kept her car next to Nandu and a paper slip next to it; it read in Hindi, ‘Now it is yours.’ She whispered, “Bye” and kissed his hand and moved sideways to Amma. She looked at Amma’s face like a child looks at his birthday gift. A dimpled smile appeared on her face, and the past and future melted away into oblivion and what existed was only the present – which was nothing but a happy dream. She surveyed Amma’s eyes, nose, lips, ears, hair, skin. She joined her hands and prayed to God that she never forgets this face. She bent down and kissed Amma’s hand. Lured by its warmth, she rested her cheek on it. Tears came in her eyes, as if someone had snatched away that gift from the child. She snivelled. She couldn’t take her face away from Amma’s hand. One second more, she said to herself, just one second. Finally, she pulled her face away, keeping the last second as a memento. She crept towards the trunk and wiped her tears with the blanket. She knew she had to go before she gets weak. She picked up the blanket by its knot and walked towards the gate, after looking at Amma once again. Outside, the world was asleep, draped in an ebony blanket. She crouched by the doorway, and with the sack kept near her feet, she looked at Amma’s face while she waited for light. When day broke, she didn’t know why, it felt more dark. She pulled her face away from Amma and picked up her sack and walked out, after kissing the main gate.
As she walked towards the horizon, she wondered now who will feed her. She wiped her tears, and thought that she can always eat with her own hands, like most of the children. But—what if she wakes up in the night and cries? What will she do? She will cry a little and then she will go back to sleep. And what will she do if she misses Amma or Nandu? No, she reminded herself, she can’t go back. She was doing this for Amma. She reminded herself that she was a mistake. And by going away she was undoing this mistake from Amma’s life. But, this doesn’t answer the question—what will she do if she misses Amma and Nandu? She will try not to think about them. Yes, she wiped her tears, she will try not to think about them. But then—why is she crying? She kept the sack down and wailed. Why is she crying if what she is doing will bring happiness to her Amma? She didn’t know.
She turned back and looked at the house. Through the thin layer of mist, she could see Amma standing at the door. She wiped her eyes. Yes, Amma was standing at the door. She felt her feet shiver. She took a step towards Amma. In greed of love, she forgot what she was doing. She took one more step. Before she could throw aside the sack and run and hug Amma, she saw Amma go inside and close the door. She remained standing there, amidst the mist of life.

Chapter 5
Knitting the Yarn of Happiness

Dai Ma sneaked into Amit’s room and placed her knitted sweater over Amit’s school sweater. The knitted sweater was two inch short at the arms and one at the chest. Dai Ma was mid-way into completing it when she had come to know Amit was going to the boarding school, about twelve months back. She hadn’t expected such difference. She noted the new measurements on her hand and went to the storeroom. There was no yarn left. She opened her money box - just fifty rupees in it. Dai Ma had not received her pay since three years. But until now, she had no use for it. With Amit gone to the boarding school, there was no one to spend it on. She took the fifty rupees and went to New Market, paying ten rupees for the auto rickshaw. She asked the seamstress to return the saree she had left for mending. As per the policy, they returned back only half the advance. She now had sixty rupees with her. She had selected the yarn she wanted, and had almost paid when her eyes fell on a shiny red yarn kept on the top of the counter, wrapped in tight polythene, with the elegance like a king.
“Bhaisaab, how much does that cost?” Dai Ma asked.
“Hundred rupees,” replied the shopkeeper.
“What is the difference between this one and that one?”
“Madam, that one is imported and made of hundred-percent cotton. Its sweaters are more comfortable to wear. And it is also more in quantity. You can make a sweater plus a cap from it.”
The shopkeeper continued, “Shall I get you that one, or pack this only?”
She convinced the shopkeeper that she will come back by eight o’clock and that he does not sell it till then. Instead of hiring an auto rickshaw, she walked back. By the time she reached, her feet were blistered and the joint of her chappal had come out. She joined them with the Fevistick. By the time she had cooked the dinner, it was already eight o’clock. She hadn’t as yet ironed the clothes and watered the plants. By the time she was done with all the chores, it was half past eight; but only to realise a moment later the clock had stopped. The clock in Neetu’s room showed the time as half past nine. She could hear the sound of closing shutters. Tired, she went and sat in the balcony and ate peanuts. She saw Amit come in, two brimming glasses tucked between his arms and chest, a water bottle between his palms and the inflated pack of last night’s Kwality Banana Chips dangling from his lower pocket. He gave her a smile and placed the things down. He took out a paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
He said, “Dai Ma, it tastes better with salt. Try it.”
Veiled behind his smile, Dai Ma saw the pang of disappointment in Amit’s eyes when he looked at the meagre peanuts left on the paper. She poured more peanuts on the paper from the sack, and went out. She felt she had heard him call her name, but she didn’t turn back. After Amit had gone, she cleared the papers and swept the floor. She unrolled her cot, sat on it and looked at the moon, which looked even more blemished today.

Dai Ma looked at the clock; it was six in the morning. She turned her head and saw through the banister the sun peeking out from the horizon, and the still-sleeping city draped in a pale blue blanket. She rolled her cot and kept it behind the balcony door. She was passing by Amit’s room when she noticed he was not in his bed. He came out a moment later from the bathroom, the towel tied on his waist. He tried to pull over his shirt with his shivering hands, but it got stuck in his big head. Dai Ma took a step towards him, but drew it back. The shirt came down after some effort. He wore rest of the clothes in less than two minutes. He stood in front of the mirror and surveyed his hair. He picked up a comb and ran it through them. His wet hair stuck to his scalp, evenly. He passed a hand over a group of stubborn hair who had stood up. All sat down, but some stood up again. He pressed them down, and when he released his hand, none rebelled. He turned around and looked at the dishevelled bed. He spread the blanket over the bed. Then he picked up one corner, walked alone the bed, and placed it above the other; he did the same with other side. He did rest of the folds and kept it over the chair. Dai Ma noticed a few rebels had again stood up on his head. He made the bed and pulled out his shoes from under the bed. He didn’t tie their lace; he tucked them inside his shoes. Before he went to the boarding school, she always combed his hair, clothed him, arranged his school bag and tied his shoelace. She would tell herself there was no need for him to do it when she was there; he could always learn to do it later, when he grows up. He soon grew up enough to hold the glass of milk by his own. He grew up enough to pee on his own. He grew up enough to go to a primary school. He grew up enough to keep secrets. And then he grew up enough to go to a boarding school. When Neetu had said to Dai Ma, packing his bag, “Amit is now a grown up boy,” Dai Ma realised that her clock of years had stopped working long back, making her feel Amit was still five years old, just a kid, yet to grow up. Neetu’s words wound that clock, by five years in one second. But it was too late. He went to the boarding school; unaware of how to live without someone to tie his lace, bathe him, clothe him, feed him, love him.
Dai Ma walked to the kitchen and made poha. She called out, “Amit baba, breakfast is ready. Come.” He ate on the dining table, while she sat on the floor besides him. “Amit baba, you need anything?” He shook his head. She saw the milk pour out on the stove from the overheated tumbler. She rushed to the kitchen and transferred it with tongs to the counter. She turned back, and saw him eating without any of distraction. Amit kept the plate in the sink, washed hands and went to the drawing room. When Dai Ma went to Amit’s room, she felt there was little left to do; Amit had already done most of the work. She was horrified when she saw the little stain on his blanket. She washed and left it for drying on the terrace. It had happened for the second time since Amit had come. She thanked God Neetu hadn’t seen it.
She went to the storeroom and reluctantly took out forty rupees from the two thousand rupees she had kept aside. Her legs were still paining from yesterday’s strain. In her way to the shop she often stopped and, there being no bench around, sat on the steps of houses for a minute. She sighed with relief when she saw that the red yarn was still there, on the top counter. She kept the money on the counter, and was about to keep the yarn in her bag when the shopkeeper said, “Madam, it costs hundred and ten rupees.”
She said, “Bhaisaab, I came yesterday, and then you told me it was hundred rupees.”
“It is hundred and five.”
She searched among the darkness of her purse for whatever she could find. Four fifty-paisa coins and two one-rupee coins.
“Madam fast. Tell me you want it or not.”
“Bhaisaab, just one minute.”
The man sitting on the chair saw all this, and gave her the yarn for hundred rupees. She thanked him and walked back, without stopping, as the pain was evanesced by joy. At home, she saw Amit was still sitting in the drawing room, smiling at the fishes.
Dai Ma went in the kitchen to make lunch. She kept the parathas on the dining table, and said, “Come Amit baba, lunch is ready.”
She sat leaning by the divan and said, “Mummy has gone to her friend’s house and Papa is eating at the office today.”
He didn’t look at her.
After he had eaten, she went down to water the plants. Every now and then she turned back to see if he was coming down. He didn’t. When she was done, she went upstairs and saw him sleeping on the sofa.
Alone.
With no one by his side.
She sat next to him and pressed the rebels on his head; they went to sleep. She had been knitting since three hours in the storeroom when she realised it was time for Neetu and Rajeev to come home. She prepared the dinner. She knitted for the two hours she got after the dinner and before sleeping. When she came out, it was eleven o’clock. Amit was sleeping in his room. She rolled her cot on the cold, white moonlit balcony and poured peanuts on a paper. She saw Amit cross the drawing room to fetch water from the kitchen. He stopped on his way back and looked at her. From the kitchen, he brought a bottle of water and kept it next to Dai Ma and went back to his room.
The change in Amit’s behaviour had stirred a cord of fear in her. She remembers how until last year—after the formulation of The Half Love Rule—he would rebuke her if she didn’t allow him to eat with her. “Dai Ma,” he would say to her, “if you tell me to go away I will tell my friend Raman to come and beat you. He is my best friend and he will not say no to me.” Looking back, she felt she preferred those threats to his present silence. It was spreading inside him like a disease he had picked up at the boarding school. Since he has come back, he has been spending his days lying on the divan, looking at the fishes or the ceiling, with a gaze so still that it seemed he was competing for stillness with the ceiling. He hadn’t opened the TV since he had come. Two days back Dai Ma had switched on the TV and tuned to his favourite show, Dragon Ball Z. He didn’t even look at the TV. Not even when Goku, his hero, had come back to save his friends. Not even when Vijeta, the creature he loathes most, was defeated. He didn’t say uff! when the intervals came. He didn’t even dance or sing the song along when the credits rolled. He just smiled at the fishes. Dai Ma remembered what had happened to him last year when the serial was not aired for two months – he restricted himself to a meagre diet, resisted the temptation of the chocolate ice-cream that Rajeev brought, cursed the makers of the anime and even forbade himself from watching any other show. One day, he dug his head in Dai Ma’s lap and cried his heart out. And it was at that moment that Golawalla came into his life. Amit looked at the old crippled man as he crushed ice and moulded it into cones, dressed it with colourful nectars and presented it to him in a paper plate with a broad smile. Thereon, like a last-bencher waiting with vigilant ears for the ringing of the school bell, Amit waited for the tolling of the Golawalla’s bell. After silencing the TV, Amit would stand in the balcony ten minutes before four o’clock to look out for him. A notorious cow often came around the bend and shook the bell in its neck at sporadic intervals just to fool the eager waiting-for-Golawalla children, who, at the first hint of the sound, would come rushing out of their doors shouting out their colour preferences, while their mothers shouted out from the balconies that they will break their kneecaps if they eat more than two. Amit earned the distinction of being the only person in the colony who wasn’t deceived by the cow. Amit’s being a daily customer—and the most patient one—the Golawalla often poured extra nectar (and that too the red one) on his gola. Soon the anime started again. Amit ate golas while he watched the anime. Since then Golas and Dragon Ball Z accompanied each other like a couple made in heaven. When Amit had gone away, like most people, the Golawalla was heart-broken. Not because Amit was a regular customer, but because he was the only one who said Hello to him daily. Dai Ma had told Golawalla two weeks back and Amit would be coming back soon. Last week, at precisely four o’clock, the silence of the afternoon-napping colony was disturbed by the toll of Golawalla’s bell. It tolled and tolled and tolled. Like someone calling out for his beloved across two worlds. It tolled and tolled and tolled even after all other children had eaten stomach-full golas. One last forlorn toll, and then it stopped, leaving the air impregnated with a melancholy silence, like that of a battlefield. The old man adjusted his heels, turned the handcart around and went away.
Dai Ma kept her rosary in the tin box, unfurled her blanket and stretched out on the cot. A sharp sound woke her up few minutes later. She listened closely: it was the whining of a dog. She tried to go back to sleep, but the sound didn’t allow. The sharp whines pierced the silence of the night like arrows fired from a bow of pain. Dai Ma turned about and saw Amit standing in the kitchen, looking down the railing. He took out a hardened chapatti from a jar and gently threw it down the railing. The whines continued.
The next day, Dai Ma again found stains on Amit’s blanket. She wondered how many more days are left before Neetu comes to know Amit still pisses in bed. In the afternoon, she saw him carrying a mug of water to the garden. From the balcony, she saw him sprinkle it at one particular place on the rose bed. When she went in to water the plants in the evening, she noticed he had sprinkled the water on the sick rose which he had pointed out the other day. It was shrivelled and decaying. Dai Ma took out the large stones from around it and levelled the soil. She tried to lift it up, but it fell again. She took out a small quantity of manure and dabbed it around the rose. She noticed Amit was standing behind the hedge, looking at her, like a child who looks at the doctor who has come to see his ill mother. Dai Ma saw a small paper folded and kept behind the rose. Picking it up, she saw a photo of Lord Krishna on it; overleaf were the words, ‘Get Well Soon’. She kept it back.
That night, the whines again woke her up. And like the day before, Amit was standing by the railing. She saw him go downstairs with the door key in his hand. She went to the railing and saw him come out a few minutes later, carrying an empty gunny bag. He placed it over the dog. Dai Ma hurriedly went back to her cot. He came up and stood by the railing. The whines continued.
Early next morning, when Dai Ma went downstairs to get the newspapers, she saw a puny dog below the steps of the opposite shop, covered with the gunny bag, with a piece of bread kept next to it on a paper, untouched. Its black body was patched with large reddish spots; it looked as if its skin was falling off. Dai Ma kept a bowl of water next to it, but when she was buying the vegetables in the noon, she saw it had remained untouched. She heard the whines that night also, but this time Amit wasn’t at the railing but in his bed. When she went to the railing, she found the dog missing. But the whines continued all night. She was strolling in the garden next day when she heard muffled voices coming from behind the gazebo. She went there and saw Amit squatting besides the dog, trying to feed it the bread-and-butter slice he had pinched at the breakfast. She went up and tore open the packet of dog biscuits she had brought. When she went down, she saw Amit sitting on a bench with a copy in his hand. She asked, “Amit baba, where is the dog?”
He looked up from the book, briefly, and then continued writing.
She asked again, “Where is the dog?”
He continued writing with deep concentration.
“Amit baba—”
He said without looking up, “Yes?”
“Amit baba, where is that black dog, which you were feeding just now? Don’t worry I am not telling Mummy anything.”
He looked up in her eyes, and pointed his finger to a corner. At first Dai Ma felt there was nothing there but a large stack of bricks. But when she went on the other side of the stack, she saw a small room in the brick structure, curtained by a cloth. She raised the cloth and found the dog inside. Gunny bags were laid on the floor and a small torch was fixed in between two bricks. The dog was covered with the piece of bed sheet which Amit had taken from Dai Ma the day before to clean his study table. Next to it were untouched bread and cookies. Dai Ma turned around and saw Amit standing by the gazebo pillar, looking at her; his hair were falling over his eyes, hiding the creases on his forehead. She kept the dog biscuits inside and went away. Turning back from the stairs, she saw Amit squatting besides the kennel, trying to feed the dog with the biscuits.
When Dai Ma woke up the next day, she saw that Amit was not in his room but in the garden. Nursing the two sick. There was still an hour before Neetu woke up. Dai Ma went down carrying more dog biscuits. Amit was squatting next to the kennel, peering in.
“What happened, Amit baba?”
He pointed his finger towards the dog and said, “Dai Ma, he didn’t eat.”
The dog had bitten a small portion from a biscuit. Milk, water, bread, cookies – all were untouched. Dai Ma brought the biscuit to its mouth, but it showed no sign of opening its mouth.
“Dai Ma, will he be fine?”
“Yes, Amit baba.”
But Amit knew it was not. The dog was dying, not of a disease, but of the secret grief that was hidden somewhere in a dark nook of his heart, eating it away. When Dai Ma returned from the market in the evening, she saw Amit sitting cross-legged next to the kennel.
“Amit baba, Mummy is at home, you should—”
“Dai Ma, Dai Ma, look! See! He ate, he ate! I swear he did. Come, see.”
It had eaten three biscuits.
“Amit baba, how did this happen?”
“Dai Ma, you won’t believe it! I was sitting here and I was just talking to him, I was telling him about my school and I was also reading him my comic and you won’t believe it when I looked up from my comic I find him eating the biscuits.
Dai Ma, now I think if he eats your moong ka halwa, he will be just fine.”
Dai Ma examined the sick rose while she was watering the plants. Amit didn’t peep from behind the hedge; he came and squatted besides her.
“Dai Ma, will this be also fine?”
“I hope so.”
“I will read it my The New Adventures of Superman comic and then it will be fine.”
“Yes. But Amit baba, be careful; only come down to see the dog and this rose when Mummy is not at home.”
The next day, Dai Ma went in the garden carrying moong ka halwa in paper plates. Amit took out a pinch out it and kept it next to the sick rose. He kept the plate next to the dog and said, “Eat it. It is good.”
He turned to Dai Ma, “Dai Ma, where is mine?”
“Upstairs.”
Amit looked at the dog as it hurriedly licked it up the.
“Here,” Dai Ma said, giving a mischevious smile and handing over the other plate to Amit.
Dai Ma went upstairs to cook dinner. An hour later, she heard muffled barks. She ran downstairs. “Amit baba, Mummy is at home! She will see it. Silence it.”
“Dai Ma, Dai Ma, look it is fine now! I told you it will be fine if it eats your moong ka halwa. Look! It is speaking! It is speaking!”
The dog was frenziedly barking.
Dai Ma felt it was expressing its gratitude.
But Amit knew it was speaking out that secret grief.
Amit listened closely to his words, like a consoling friend. “Don’t worry, doggie, don’t worry.”
“Amit baba, come upstairs, dinner is ready.”
“Yes, Dai Ma, in just few minutes. He is talking first time today.”
When Dai Ma looked at him, she thought she had seen a glint of tear in his eye. She had been wrong. There was one thing that that one year couldn’t take away from him. He still loved more than he was supposed to.

Chapter 4
The Biased Gardener

More than a week had passed since Amit’s arrival. As a custom, just before evening, Amit went to Ashraf Chacha’s shop and quietly sat on the chair besides him. After the customers were gone, Ashraf Chacha said in a deep, troubled voice,
“See what has happened to our poor world. Where ever you see there is fighting and blood. When will people learn to live in peace?” (he turned towards Amit) “OK, now look at us. You are a Hindu and I am a Muslim—but do we ever fight?”
“No, Chacha, we never fight. Because we are not bad people.”
“Shabbash! Give me a handshake on this. Good boy. I don’t understand why all Hindu-Muslims can’t live like us and love each other. Beta, always remember one things: first you hate a person, and then you later regret it, and then you will long for the time to come back so that you can say Sorry and love that person, and then you realise it is not possible. And life is too short for such a long process. Love everybody—I mean everybody. No matter how bad that person is. It’s short, simple and easy. Am I right?”
“Yes, Chacha.”
“Good boy! Now, eat your biscuits.”
Having finished them, Amit showed Chacha his new Spiderman comic. Chacha flipped through the pages, and patted Amit’s back and said, “Congrats! But don’t forget your studies because of it. OK?”
“OK Chacha.”
Amit finished reading the left over ten pages and said,
“Chacha, now I will go.”
“OK beta. And remember what I said: love everybody.”
“Yes Chacha, I definitely will.”
Amit was eager to see Dustoor Uncle’s indignation on the recent blasts. But he had to return home, disappointed, as his shop was closed. He saw Dai Ma watering plants in the garden.
“Dai Ma, can I help?”
She gave him a fleeting glance.
“No.”
He followed her, carefully observing her work, like an eager apprentice. He cupped his hands towards the hole in the hosepipe from where water was trickling out, and turned towards the flower bed and sprinkled on it. When he turned back to the hosepipe again, Dai Ma asked, “What are you doing?”
“I am helping you to water the plants,” he said.
“Amit baba, there is no need.”
But he felt there was. On his fifth turn, his feet tangled with the hosepipe and he tumbled down.
Dai Ma shouted, “I told you there is no need! Now go in and wash yourself.”
He stood still, looking at her with a hurt expression. He briefly dabbed water on his hands and legs and examined the tulip bed.
“Wow,” he said turning to Dai Ma, “look Dai Ma, this one is so beautiful. Please give this one more water than others.”
She didn’t say anything.
He proceeded to examine the rose bed. Concealed under its vibrant, sprawling peers, Amit saw a black, deformed rose. Poor creature! – fighting with death on the threshold of life when its peers were enjoying sunbathe. Amit laid his palm under it and gently tried to lift if up, but it fell again, like a depressed man.
Amit said, “Dai Ma—Dai Ma, please, listen.”
“What?”
“Dai Ma, no, don’t give extra water to that flower. Give extra water to this, please. It is sick.”
He stood up and watched it piteously. He didn’t examine the beds further, his heart being too weak.
Dai Ma said, “Amit baba, go in and have your dinner. Today papa will come late.”
He sat on the inverted bucket and looked at the flowers and manicured grass.
Dai Ma said, “Amit baba go in, otherwise Mummy will be angry.”
He went in, reluctantly, and sat on a chair in the dining room. Mummy was in the kitchen. His eyes fell on a familiar shape under the divan. He went over and took it out.
“Mr Mousey!” he said. “What are you doing here?”
He was about to ask Mr Mousey what he did in the vacations and if pestered Mummy, but when turned about he saw Mummy standing near the dining table, holding the plates, eyeing him furiously.
He looked at Mr Mousey and then at Mummy.
He said, “Mummy—no—no, Mummy I wasn’t—I wasn’t talk—talking to it, I was just seeing it” (she went back in the kitchen, without saying anything) “Mummy listen—mummy—”. He threw Mr Mousey down and trampled it until its tail popped out, kicked it under the divan and went back to his chair. Mummy came out a minute later, and keeping a bowl on the table she sat opposite to him. Amit took two cutlets and evenly diced them with his table knife. He poked his fork in them, gently, in the middle so that the grip doesn’t betray in mid-air, and ate them. After Mummy cleared the table, Amit sat on the sofa and started reading his Spiderman comic again. An hour later, he saw Dai Ma enter the balcony carrying a rolled paper. One page later, he kept the comic in pocket, and peeked in. Dai Ma was sitting on the floor, her back leaning against the pillar, eating peanuts kept on the paper. Amit rushed to his room and tore a page from his copy. In the kitchen, he poured out salt on the page, and folded it. He filled two glasses with water and took all this to the balcony. Giving Dai Ma a smile, he sat opposite to her, and unfolded the page.
“Dai Ma,” he said, “it tastes better with salt. Try it.”
He saw with dismay that less than a dozen peanuts were left on the paper. When they were finished, Dai Ma folded the paper and was going away, when Amit said, “Dai Ma, are there no more?”
“Yes. Wait.”
She kept the paper back and brought a sack and poured out peanuts on it. Amit had only shelled a peanut and daubed it with salt when he saw Dai Ma fold the cot she was sitting on. She said, “After eating, leave it all here. I’ll clear it.”
When she had reached the door, he called in barely audible voice, “Dai Ma.”
She hadn’t heard. She walked away.
He ate the nut in his hand. He shelled another peanut and ate it. Still chewing, he leaned forward and saw Dai Ma ironing. He shelled another peanut. He leaned forward; Dai Ma was still ironing. He threw the nut at the moon and walked to his room. He struggled through his holiday homework. Then, tearing a page from his copy, keeping aside all things, and taking out a fountain pen, he wrote in neat handwriting:

From
Amit

To
______
Address:
______
______
Dear my best friend,
How are you? I am fine. I hope you are fine.
Today I did very big mistake. I saw Mister Mousi sitting under bed. I was seeing him after one year so I asked him, “How are you?” Then I turned and saw Mummy was standing behind. I was feeling so sad. I wanted to hit myself.
Did I tell you my best friend that Dai Ma talked to me in the train? Yes she did. I was happy. But I do not know why she did not talk after that. She told me to sleep alone that night when I slept next to her. I was feeling so afraid in my room that I was vibrating but she did nothing. She is very hard heart. It is the first time I remember I sleep alone. And that is not all as today in the garden I was helping her and I fell down. She did not even pick me up. But she shouted on me. And after that when she was eating moongphali in the balcony I brought salt and water so that I and she can eat peacefully. I was sad because no peanuts were left. But then I became happy when she brought more. But then I became sad when she gave peanuts and walked away. I thought she will come back but she did not. I was thinking we will talk like we did in back days. In back days she would very happily tell me about her village. And I would tell her about my friend Raman. I would tell her he is my best friend and we share lunch and lot of things more. But there was no Raman. I was lying because she was very happy when I talked about Raman. In the bording school I had thought a lot of things about Raman that I would tell her to make her happy. But I could not tell her because she does not talk to me. Did I tell you my best friend that Dai Ma had stopped talking to me some years before I went to bording school? Yes she had stopped talking. I do not understand why. She even stopped Dettoling my hurts and forcing me to drink milk and lot of things more. She did nothing if I fell or got hurt or was sad. She stopped spending even one rupees on me. Earlier she would get me toys and mangoes but now she never ever does. At the railway station I asked for the new adventures of batman and robin special edition comic but she not give money.
When she talked to me in train I thought things have changed. But after that she did not talk anymore. She does not love me anymore. I know it. Sometimes I think she does not love me because she thinks I am a dirty beggar. Sometimes I feel like a pin is going inside my heart. Now I will also not talk to her and I will also not love her.
I saw long back photos one day. In them I was very small and Mummy was loving me. But now she does not. Both Mummy and Dai Ma both stopped loving me. Sometimes I start feeling I have really become a dirty beggar. Only Papa loves me and that also only sometimes. But he was not at home today. I feel so sad. My heart hurts.
Please reply soon. Not like last time.

Amit folded the letter and kept in the red bag along side similar unaddressed and unsent letters. The red bag had two pockets. On the pocket brimming with these letters, there hung a tag: ‘Letters to be send to my best friend’. On the other pocket, which was empty, the tag read: ‘Letters got from my best friend’.
It was twelve o’clock. Amit sat on his bed, took out the marble idol from his drawer, held it between his palms and murmured a prayer. He kept it back and stretched on the bed. He turned over and looked at the moon. White. Gloomy. Silent. He turned over and looked at the ceiling. Withering paint. Glum. Dull. Something was irritating him. He sat up. Crickets were chirping. He drew aside the blanket and walked out of room. Drawing room was dark, lit only by pale moonlight. Dai Ma was sleeping on cot, absolutely still. No sound. Only crickets chirping. Mummy’s room door was closed. He picked up Mr Mousey and cleaned it with his shirt. Sorry, he said, sorry. He looked around. Mummy was not there. He was sweating. He tried to fix the broken tail. Couldn’t. I’m very sorry, he said, very very sorry. He walked back to room clutching it to his chest.

Chapter 3
The Half Love Rule

Amit went to his room and changed his clothes. Dai Ma went to the kitchen and poured milk for him. “Dai Ma, I’m going,” he said rushing out. “Wait Amit—your milk—” The door bolted behind him; the words remained inside. She went and sat in the balcony. As she stepped in, she left her present behind. She sat by the banister, and looked down at the street. She sang a melancholy song, only loud enough for her ears. The blaring horns, the mooing cow resting by the gutter, the tensed doggies, the withered man calmly sipping tea – with its tapestry of noises and colours, it looked like a fairyland, enticing her even today.

*

When Dai was ten years old, while sweeping, she would often lean by the banister and look down with awe at the hustling-bustling street; the noise galore, the liveliness of the never stopping cars, the calm demeanour of tea-drinkers – how different it was from her village. Rukmani Devi would chide her when she saw it. Then Savitri was born. Rukmani Devi would often leave the cradle in the balcony. Dai now preferred to peep in the cradle and look at the excited and wriggling baby. To make her comfortable, Dai once loosened the cloth around her, but she still kept wriggling. She once asked Rukmani Devi about it; at first Rukmani Devi looked perplexed, but then she replied that Munni did so because she was a baby. Dai didn’t find the answer satisfactory. Every day, looking at Munni posed a new puzzle before Dai. Then a khawasan was appointed. She would come early morning, wake up the Munni, bathe her, massage her with olive oil, rim kohl around her eyes and then wrap her in a cloth and keep her in the cradle. Dai felt that Munni looked miserable because she wasn’t able to kick now; but she still made saliva bubbles. Dai didn’t understand why bai would never clean the black spot from Munni’s forehead. It didn’t look good on her fair skin. One day Dai wiped it with her finger.
Rukmani Devi was seeing. “What happened, Dai, what are you doing?”
“That—that bai forgot to clean that—spot on Munni’s head. I was cleaning it.”
Rukmani Devi laughed. “Oh … you silly girl, that spot is to prevent Munni from evil eyes.”
Dai watched in amazement as Rukmani Devi brought the kohl and put a spot on Munni’s forehead. Her wonder and puzzlement increased with each day. She came to know that one talks to babies in a different language: by making funny sounds, sticking one’s tongue out, or mimicking its actions. Water was called mum-mum, cow was called gow mata, dog was called doggie, urine was called sussu and market was called bajji. She once tried to talk to Munni in this strange language. Munni looked at her, perplexed, and then started crying. However, on next try Dai succeeded to make her laugh. In two years, Dai was skilled enough to make her laugh, play with her, feed her and massage her. Dai’s puzzles were solved – some by answers others by time. And after a few days Rukmani Devi told Dai to hold Munni in her hands. Dai introduced Munni to the alluring, enticing, awe-inspiring world that existed down the banister. Dai made Munni stand behind the grating, held Munni with her hands and pointed with her finger the various things and named them, “That, Munni, is a big gow mata, and that, small one next to it is a doggie.” Munni looked at Dai and then at the street, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide open, her hands clutching the grate, her feet shaking; quiet, attentive, like a student learning about a new planet. Sometimes a loud horn would make her fall back and she would tightly clutch Dai’s leg and shiver, and laugh. And then Munni grew up, and became Savitri. She was no more interested in the balcony. Dai went back to sweeping, and looked at the world alone. Twenty years later, Savitri gave birth to a boy, Rajeev. No khawasan was appointed. Dai massaged and bathed him. When he was a year old, he was introduced to the world below the banister. He looked at it, enraptured. Then one day he cried to go down and touch the world. When Dai took him downstairs, to the street, he started crying. From then, Rajeev preferred to look at the world from a distance; he understood that touching it would break the magic spell. Dai did the same when Ragini, Rajeev’s sister was born. As they both grew up, for them the magic lost its lure. It became a part of their life, something which was around them, always, and hence not magical. Dai retreated back to her chores.
Dai had become Dai Ma by the time Rajeev married. He stayed here with his wife, Neetu, while his sister Ragini flew to Canada after marriage. A month before Neetu’s baby was due Dai Ma became equipped with kohl, olive oil bottles, clothes and nappies. With Amit’s birth the house the house bloomed up, with a transient joy.

*

Dai Ma saw Amit standing at the door. He was panting. “What happened, Amit baba?” she said standing up.
He just stood there.
“You ran away without drinking your milk. Sit on the dining table I’ll heat it again.”
Dai Ma walked out of the balcony, again becoming a part of the present, picking up time from where she had left it. While Dai Ma was heating the milk in the kitchen, she saw Amit come in and stand next to her.
“Amit baba, still on the chair, I’ll get the milk.”
He just stood there.
Dai Ma said, “Here, Amit baba, it’s done. It is very hot, come, I’ll keep it on the table for you.”
Amit followed her and sat on the chair. Dai Ma said, “Drink it slowly, it is very hot.”
She was going back in the kitchen when Amit said, “Dai Ma, where are you going?”
“Nowhere. I’m in the kitchen only, making tea for myself.”
When she would turn back from the stove, she would see Amit leaning back from his chair, staring at her. Moments later, she found him standing next to her, holding the glass in his hands.
“Amit baba, sit there and drink, it’s very hot.”
He heard it. But he just stood there.
He said, “No Dai Ma, it’s not very hot.”
“Amit baba, I will come there as soon my tea is ready. It will take just a minute.”
He just stood there.
Amit kept the milk on the platform. Dai Ma asked, “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he said before picking it up again. She saw his palms were red. She turned off the stove, took the glass from him and went out. Amit sat on the chair and drank the milk, with no hurry, because he knew it was very hot. He hasn’t changed, Dai Ma said to herself.
Neetu and Rajeev came half an hour later, at 7 O’clock. The dinner came and went, without disturbing the silence much.
It was one 12 O’clock and Dai Ma could see Amit strolling about the drawing room. When she turned about on her cot she saw Amit sleeping next to her. Neetu was asleep by now but Dai Ma knew she often came out to get water. She woke him up and told him to go back to his room. When he complained about mosquitoes in his room, she could sense the plea in his words. She sent him back forcefully, and shifted her cot next to the door of his room. But she couldn’t sleep. She sat up and looked at the ebony sky. She often turned her head towards the room; she knew Amit would check every hour if she was there. He always does. He always did.

*

Neetu had once dabbed Dettol over his knee when he fell down. The next day he came running with his elbow pointed out and said to Neetu, “Mummy, mummy, I got hurt. It is paining badly. Please put Dettol.” Neetu brushed him off, saying, “I don’t see any hurt.” Later the same day, he came back and told her the same thing; but this there was some dirt stuck on his elbow. Neetu knew it was forged. She slapped him. After Neetu went, Dai Ma went to his room and said, “Amit baba, where did you get hurt? Show me.” She looked at his finger and raised her brows in shock.
She said, “Oh Amit baba! How—how did this happen?”
“I was—” (he wiped his tear) “I was just playing when I fell down and hit a stone.”
“Oh! Amit baba, does it hurt badly?”
He nodded.
She brought cotton, soaked it in Dettol and dabbed it over his fake wound. When he said Ouch, she gave him a sympathetic look and said:
“Don’t worry, Amit baba, it will be all right, it will be just fine.”
She said, “Amit baba, you should be very careful while playing,” and bandaged his finger. He nodded and went away to play. His wounds now surfaced every four or five days. Dai Ma wiped them all with her Dettol.
Neetu’s friends would bring their children along and—to prevent them from jumping in their laps and drown their guffaws in their cries of Mummy mummy mummy—would leave them in the porch where they would play with Amit. Their customary game was of enacting roles. Amit was made the watchman; but he often mixed up his lines or forgot to salute. When he was made the sweeper, someone would always tumble down because of his absentminded brooming. Annoyed, the other children gave him a toy and told him to enact like an audience member. He did this job well. He sat in a corner, didn’t say a word, like an abandoned doll. When asked, he fetched water for the busy players. He breathed a sigh of relief when they decided to change the game. The new game was ghar-ghar, where a group had to enact like a family. The children were divided in two teams. No one was ready to take Amit. They decided that the family which was not managed properly by the end of the week would have to take him. A souvenir soon to be thrust upon the loser team, he stood leaning by the door, smiling when the father of a family said, The food is delicious, sulking when a mother complaint of rising prices. Dai Ma called him one day and showed him a board with incoherent lines drawn on it. She said, “Amit baba, do you know how to play changey-ashtey?”
“No.” he said.
“O! Amit baba, you are so big and you don’t even know how to play changey-ashtey! Don’t tell anyone that. They will laugh at you. Let me teach you.” The board was dusted, wood chips taken as counters, rules explained and the game played. They played for two hours. The next morning, Dai Ma was woken up by a muffed voice. She opened her eyes and saw two zealous eyes peering at her. “Dai Ma, wake up, Dai Ma—let us play changey-ashtey. The board is ready.” Amit sat on the chair and took five-minutes for each turn, while Dai Ma, sweeping the floor, came and finished her turn in five seconds. Some days Amit would take the board in the kitchen and keep it on the LPG cylinder. Dai Ma would take out snatches of seconds from her cooking and play her turns. Those days when she couldn’t play because she was already late for cooking, Amit would sit on an inverted tumbler in the kitchen and wait. With the advent of this new time-pass, he stopped following Neetu around. He trailed after Dai Ma; and she allowed him. Dai Ma saw Amit curled up on the sofa, crying. He told her through the tearful face that Neetu had not taken him with her and had even slapped him. Dai Ma said, “Amit baba, don’t cry. I am going to the temple. You want to come with me?” At the temple, she told him to join hands and wish for something (and not to tell that wish to anybody). After this, Dai Ma asked him to take sweets from the fat half-naked man who was standing near the idol. Amit shrunk back in fear. Dai Ma took the sweets for him. From the shop outside, she brought him a small marble idol of Lord Krishna. She said, “Lord Krishna was also very nut-khut like you. If you want anything, kept it between your palms and wish for it.”
“Will I get everything?” he asked.
“Yes, if you ask with a clear heart.”
As the days passed, he regularly went to the temple with Dai Ma. His fear of the fat half-naked man subsided; partially because he realised that he was harmful, and partially because he now donned more garments because of winter. One day, the fat half-naked man suddenly placed a rose string around Amit’s neck. Amit was surprised and delighted. For a second Amit thought he had now become bhaganwanji, but Dai Ma broke his oblivion.
Amit now went with Dai Ma to the market also, where sometimes she would buy him puffed rice (after making sure the stall was hygienic). On a few days, she would take out money from her savings and buy Amit mangoes. Amit would eat them sitting the balcony while she stood out guarding the balcony from Neetu (Mangoes were strictly prohibited in the household. Seeing someone eat it gave Neetu creeps.) After having finished them, Dai Ma would rigorously wash Amit’s hands and mouth.
Dai Ma once threatened him, “Amit baba, stay away from me! I won’t talk to you because you never drink milk on time.”
“Dai Ma, I drink milk on time.”
“I am not talking to you?”
“But why?”
She didn’t speak.
Amit looked at her and shouted, pointing out his finger, “If you won’t talk to me, I will tell my friend Raman to come and beat you.” She replied, “You will get your Dai Ma beaten? Your Dai Ma? Your own Dai Ma? Good. Very good. Go, tell him to beat me. You are doing a very good thing.” She looked away from him.
He said, “Dai Ma.”
“Arre, you haven’t gone yet? Go. Tell your Raman to beat your Dai Ma. Go now.”
He looked at her with tearful eyes, and said, holding his earlobes, “Sorry. I won’t tell him.” From the next day on, Dai Ma would make Bournvita milk for him (now in a larger cup) and tea for herself and they would drink it sitting in the warm sunlit balcony. Dai Ma had to keep telling him to finish it fast. He would stand leaning by the banister and then rush towards the glass, take a sip and then go back. He drank it all in one gulp if she reminded him of her threat.
Dai Ma said to Amit one day, “There is so much noise and dust down there. In my village there are no such things—no motor-cars, no motor-bikes, no traffic signals.”
Amit rushed over and sat besides her on the cot. “Really Dai Ma? Then how do people go about?”
“On foot.”
“And for long distances?”
“On cycles.”
“But it would take lots of time, won’t it?”
“Yes, lots of time.”
“Dai Ma you also had a cycle?”
“Yes,” she continued, “I had one. It was pink and white with roses made on it—very beautiful.”
“Wow, Dai Ma. And where did you go with that cycle?”
“Where? Oh, lots of places—my school, my old nanny’s house, to the grocer, and yes—sometimes to the lake also.”
“Wow, Dai Ma, you had a lake also?”
“Yes, we had a lake—a very very big lake. I would go there with my friends and sit on a stone and we all would chew sugarcanes.”
“Dai Ma, were there fishes in the lake?”
“Oh, yes, lots of them. Big fishes, small fishes, and some frogs also. Bust mostly there were lotuses—”
“Lotuses? Were there really lotuses Dai Ma?”
“Yes, hundreds and hundreds of them. They covered the whole lake. If you look from a distance you will feel as if it is a pink blanket over the lake.”
Arun tried to visualise it in his mind. “Wow,” he said. “Was there anything else also in the lake?”
“Oh yes, there is one jalpari also. My father used to say there used to many of them in olden times.”
“What is a jalpari, Dai Ma?”
“A jalpari is a woman which has a fish-like tail instead of legs.”
She told him about the friendly cow which she and her friends would feed everyday and the dog they had adopted and hid under an inverted basket. The excitement on his face waxed with every new detail. She continued to invent more details. She had rarely seen him so happy. She wished there really was such a lake, such a village.
He said, “Raman also has a dog at home—a very big dog.”
“Who is Raman?”
“Dai Ma, you don’t know Raman? He is in my class. He is my best friend. He brings cakes and pastries everyday and we share tiffin. He even gets the highest marks in Maths.”
She listened with interest as he spoke of his friend. She was glad there was someone to look after him in the school.
“—and that is not all,” he said. “Sometimes he brings so many toffees that his pocket looks like a balloon.” He stood up and stretched his pocket. “It looks this big. See.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Dai Ma, really. All types of toffees. Chocolate and strawberry also.”
He continued, “Dai Ma, I have one toffee right now. You want it?”
“No Amit baba, you eat.”
“No, Dai Ma, no. Please you eat.”
He took it out of his pocket and gave it to her.
“Amit baba,” she remarked, “why don’t you tuck in your shirt.”
“Dai Ma eat it right now, otherwise I know if I go away you won’t eat it.”
“OK.” She ate it.
She said, “Amit baba, tuck in your shirt, it will look better.”
He stood up and reluctantly tucked it in. Dai Ma noticed his pant was unbuttoned.
She said, “Amit baba, why is your button open?”
“Dai Ma it is very tight.”
“Oh. Then why don’t you tell Mummy to get you new pant?”
“I told her. She said she has got no time.”
“Amit baba, come with me.”
Dai Ma took him to the store room, brought down her sewing machine from the cupboard, dusted it, and sewed a new pant for him over the following days; he sat on a low stool next to her, giving his inputs for the design and colour. Her hands were out of practice so the pant turned out to be ill-fitting. Amit went away wearing his tight-fitting pant, without complaining. The next day she called him back in the store room. Kept on the table, next to the sewing machine, inside a polythene bag, was folded cloth.
“Today we will try our best,” she said.
The pant fitted him like a T. Over the next few days, she brought more cloth and sew him two shirts and two pants. Dai Ma tried to embroider a Spiderman on his shirt. The end result was something that looked like a red bald doll. On the second shirt, they settled for writing “I Am Spiderman” below the collar. With the leftover red cloth, she made him an eye mask. Donning his new attire, he dashed in the balcony, and said, “Dai Ma, get aside, I am throwing my web! Here it goes - shu!”
“Oi!” she said and jumped aside.
After fifteen minutes of webbing, Amit retired on chair and said, “Dai Ma, I am tired. I need water.”
“Ok, Amit baba, I will get it.”
She went to the kitchen and poured water in a glass. “Here Amit baba,” she said turning back. She knew he had followed her. They walked back. Dai Ma had crossed the drawing room when she turned back and saw Amit jumping over the stools, dashing across the carpet, his hand held out. His eyes brimming with fear of being left behind. His fear didn’t turn into words; it remained inside. She picked him up and walked back to the balcony.

*

Dai Ma smiled. She cherished memories. Even in the hardest of days, gloomiest of nights, they come like an angel from nowhere and give you a pinch of happiness. But that happens only with the happy memories. Sometimes a sad memory also crops up, like a maggot while peeling peas:

*

While Amit and Dai Ma were sitting in the balcony one day, she said to him, pointing to the tear on his Spiderman shirt, “Amit baba, how did this happen?”
Amit spoke reluctantly, “Mummy—mummy—hit yesterday.”
Dai Ma noticed how Neetu’s behaviour towards Amit had suddenly changed since Nandini’s visit. Dai Ma brought some cloth the next day and sewed him a new shirt. Looking at Dai Ma straining her eyes and labouring away for hours, Amit tried to pursue her that there was no need. But she still sewed it.
Dai Ma would stand by the door, muttering Ram Ram Ram and telling her rosary, while Neetu would beat Amit. She could never forget how he would wail and look at her through the thick blob of tears, as if begging for help. Dai Ma knew her intervention would only fuel Neetu’s anger. After Neetu went away, Dai Ma would enter the room carrying his food; Amit would be lying on the bed, still crying.
“Dai Ma, Dai Ma, here—just here she hit me with her hand—” (pointing towards his elbow) “and—and see—here—” (wiping a tear, raising his pant leg, pointing to his knee) “see, I fell down on the floor and got hurt here, see, on the knee. See.”
She saw all his wounds, examined them, showed her surprise and condolence, and fed him in midst of all this. The spoon was often refused entry inside his mouth until proper condolence was expressed. After that she would dab Dettol over the pointed areas. Amit traced the origins of the wounds once more now, to squeeze out whatever more condolence was possible.

Neetu was sitting in the drawing room when she said, “Dai Ma, have you taken out the new tea set from the storeroom?”
“Yes. And I have washed it and arranged it in the kitchen.”
“Fine. And is the cake ready?”
“I have kept it in the refrigerator. It will be done before Nandini comes in the morning.”
“OK, fine. Now you can go to sleep Dai Ma.”
Amit came out of his room, carrying his blanket and pillow. He was about to enter Neetu’s room when Neetu said, “Amit, wait, wait. Today you will sleep in your room.”
He stood at the door, motionless.
“Go to your room,” Neetu said.
Amit opened the door of Neetu’s room.
Neetu stood up and went towards Amit. He stepped back.
Neetu stood towering before him and said, “Amit go to your room! Or you want me to hit you like yesterday?”
He sat down on the doorway and started crying.
“Amit—Amit—stop crying! You will wake up the whole neighbourhood. Listen to me—you are grown up, you understand? You have to learn to sleep alone. Amit—listen—stop crying, and try to understand—”
But he didn’t understand and kept crying.
“Fine, I’m locking the door—cry as much as you want.”
She drove him out and shut the door. He banged on it, screaming, “Mummy, open the door. Mummy!” He was screaming at the top of his voice. Strain abated his loudness, but he kept shouting. It seemed his throat was puffing out the last of voice it had. Stripped of the garments of loudness, she could see the pain in his voice: naked, shivering, ghoulish. He rubbed his eyes, harshly, as if it would make his Mummy come out. Dai Ma tried to calm him, but he turned a deaf ear towards her words. He went to his room, coughing and crying. She followed him. He threw himself on the bed. She said, “Amit baba, don’t cry.” But he cried. She picked him up, brought him out and laid him on her cot. “Don’t worry Amit baba,” she said, “don’t worry—you can sleep next to me. No need to be afraid. Now stop crying.”
Slaps and cries woke Dai Ma early morning. Neetu was hitting Amit.
“Amit, Amit—I told you to sleep alone, didn’t I? Then why did you sleep here—why? You will make me feel ashamed in front of the whole world. You animal.”
Dai Ma said, “No, no, don’t hit him, Neetu. It was me—it was me. I told him to sleep here.”
Neetu glared at her.
“Dai Ma—why are you always teaching him to disobey me, huh? Be in your limits, you just work here. Amit sleeps on the bed, not on the floor with a servant, you understand?”

Few days later, Dai Ma was sitting in the balcony when Neetu came to her and said, “Dai Ma, I want to talk to you.”
She looked at her.
Neetu said, “Dai Ma—please go away from here.”
Neetu continued, “You can work at my friend, Rita’s house. She is ready to give you one thousand rupees more.”
“Neetu, but what happened?”
“Dai Ma, I don’t want to give any explanations. Just go away. I will come back in the evening, and I want you to be ready by then. Someone will come from Rita’s house and take you.”
When Neetu came back in the evening, Dai Ma was still looking down the banister. Neetu asked her why she hadn’t packed till now. Dai Ma turned her face and looked at Amit. He was sitting in the garden. Neetu told her she would explain things to Rajeev. Amit was playing with a ball and grass and plants, his only friends. Neetu told her Rita would give her a better room to live. Amit looked up and smiled, and showed her his new red plastic ball. Neetu told her she can bargain for more money. Dai Ma wondered what would happen to Amit if she went away.

Amit was going with Dai Ma to the temple enjoy the sumptuous feat of chhapan bhog, when Neetu called out, “Amit, where are you going?”
“We are going to the temple,” Dai Ma said.
“Amit,” Neetu said, “you shameless, you’ve got three marks in Science. Don’t you think you should be studying? Go to your room and bring your Science copy to me. Right Now.”
“Mummy, but before this I was studying only—”
She slapped him and said, “So you’ve learnt to answer back also, huh? Get your copy right now!”
Dai Ma said, “Neetu, Neetu, don’t hit him. He’s not lying—he was studying. I saw it.”
Neetu shouted, “Amit get your copy right now!”
He just stood there.
Neetu showered slaps on him.
Dai Ma tried to guard him with her hand, “Neetu, don’t—don’t hit. Please. Stop. He’s going. He’s going. Amit baba, go, get your copy. Good boy. Go now.”
Neetu glared at Dai Ma and said, “Amit, fast.”
Dai Ma understood the signal in her eyes.
She understood that from now on, she was allowed to love Amit only half.
Neetu walked away without telling where the other half was to come from.
She went back to her cot. Amit came back an hour later, carrying his milk glass. Dai Ma said, “Amit baba, go drink on the table.”
“No Dai Ma, it is OK. Mummy has gone to market and I have learnt the Science answers.”
“Amit baba, go.”
He looked at her and sipped from the milk.
“Didn’t you hear? I said go!”
He sipped it again.
“Are you going or not?”
He went out carrying his glass. He came back a minute later and said, “I have finished it.” He was about to sit down when Dai Ma said, “Now go to your room.”
“No.”
“Go or I’ll slap you.”
He looked at her with eyes filled with puzzled tears.
“Amit baba, this is the last time I am telling you—either you go away or I’ll slap you.”
He went away, crying.
The next day, he came in the balcony and stood near Dai Ma. She noticed he was holding a box. A long interval passed, after which Dai Ma said, “What do you want?”
He said, “Dai Ma, let us play changey-ashtey.”
Before he could open the box, she said, “No. I don’t want to.”
“No Dai Ma, you have to play.”
“I said I don’t want to! Are you deaf?”
He threw the box on the ground and ran away.

Rajeev was reclining on the sofa. He said, “Dai Ma, I told you many times before, why don’t you use the vacuum cleaner we have? I am sure your back would be aching terribly.”
“No beta, it’s fine. I am used to the broom. And as it is I don’t know how to use that machine.”
“Dai Ma, what is that—that tear in your saree.”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, just rats in the storeroom.”
“And yes, I forgot to ask you—why have you shifted your things in the storeroom? Any—any problem?”
“Beta, I am getting old, and it’s difficult for me to climb those big big stairs every time I want something. Here it is easy.”
“OK fine. I am going to Haridwar in a few days, I’ll get you a new saree.”
“No, beta, I don’t need it. No use wasting money—I’ll get this fixed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Rajeev went to his room, saying, “I think I’ll take a bath.”
“Amit baba, lift your feet,” she said to Amit, who was looking at her all the while, inertly. He lifted his feet, slowly. “Dai Ma, will you play changey-ashtey today?” Amit asked. What crossed the membrane of fear in his throat was only an inaudible murmur. She hadn’t heard. He asked again. A small, silent tear was anxiously sitting on his eyelid.
She said, “How many times do I tell you I am not free! All the time changey-ashtey changey-ashtey. Do I have no other work?”
The tear now finally got redemption. It glided down the contours of his cheek, happily, like a couple going for vacation.
“Dai Ma, why do you talk to me like this nowadays? It hurts.” he asked, wiping it in mid-path.
“Again you started crying! Are you trying to torture me?”
He forcefully wiped the last tear. He threw the toast on her and ran towards the kitchen. He looked at her from behind the gate. She picked it up and placed it back on the table. He said, “You talk to me like this and I will tell Raman and he will beat you.” She continued sweeping. He crept towards her and said, “Will you play if I don’t beat you?”
She struck on his leg with her broom.
He walked away, saying, “Kat-ti.”

Amit was sitting in the drawing room, next to a potted neem plant, holding a toy mouse in his hand. “Mr Mousey, say hello to Mr Plant.” He held the mouse close to the plant. “Good boy Mr Mousey!” Amit kept the mouse down and gently wiped the dew on the leaf with his finger, and said, “Aw, don’t cry Mr Plant, don’t cry. Mummy does not love those who cry. Look at Mr Mousey—he doesn’t cry.” Amit saw Dai Ma enter carrying a mug of water. He said, “No, Mr Mousey, no. Don’t say hello to Dai Ma, because she will not say hello back to you.” Amit looked at her, but she didn’t look at him. He said in a stern voice, “Don’t forget to water that plant over there—behind the bonsai. Nowadays you are not working carefully.” She didn’t look up at him. He went out, saying, “Mr Mousey, bad people have come here. We will go in the garden.”
Half an hour later, Dai Ma saw Neetu enter from the front door, dragging Amit by his wrist. She pushed him in the bathroom, closed the door and switched off the light from outside, saying, “I think this is the only way I can teach you to behave like humans. I will open the door when I come back one hour later.” Dai Ma went back in the balcony.
Amit screamed.
She looked at the motor-cars.
Amit banged his fist on the gate.
She looked at the dogs.
Amit shouted – “Mummy!”
She looked at the cows. She cried.
Amit called her name – “Dai Ma!”
Dai Ma opened the door and hugged him.
This time she loved him more than she was supposed to.
Amit also hugged her.
For he always loved more than he was supposed to.
When Neetu came back and saw the door open, Dai Ma saw the ghastly look in her eyes, as if they were saying, So you won’t understand like this. Neetu took Amit in the room and closed the gate. The ghoulish shrieks made Dai Ma shiver; the rosary fell from her hands. Neetu flung out Amit’s Spiderman shirts and pants from his cupboard and tore them all. Amit looked at the remains in the dustbin, searching for his fault. Dai Ma sat in the balcony, telling her rosary beads she won’t break the rule again.

Crying In the Rain

When the eight-year-old girl heard her name, she dashed for the nook behind the bed and crouched there. When the door opened, she closed her eyes and hid her face between her knees and chanted, Ramji Ramji Ramji Ramji. Her rhythm broke when she felt a cold wooden stick being poked against her face. She tried to chant again but the sharp pain she felt above her eye from the second poke made it hard.
“Come out,” shouted Amma.
A third poke.
“Haramzadi, are your coming out or you want me to kill you right there?”
A silence followed, which was disturbed by a screeching sound of the moving of the bed. She looked up and saw light staring at her in the face. Amma wrung her ears and pushed her head against the bed, and said, “Haramzadi, what were you doing near that tree?”
“Amma, nothing.”
“Nothing? Tell me, or I’ll break your legs. You have blackened my face today. Tell me what were you doing?”
“Amma, I was just playing. Nothing else.”
“Talking to trees and you call it just playing, huh? Haramzadi, do you know what happened? Mohit saw you talking to the tree and he told the whole basti about it. All the women were laughing at me, and some even had the guts to say, ‘Show her to a tantric and get rid of the ghosts.’ Do you know how ashamed I was feeling? Tell me the truth, was Mohit right?”
She wiped her tears and looked at Amma.
Amma gave a muffled cry and said, “So Mohit was right. I will kill you today.”
She lay on the floor, curled up, while Amma pounded the baton on her body frenziedly. A silence followed, interrupted only by her sporadic snivels. She heard a sob, which was not hers, and then the sound of the baton being thrown on the ground. When the pain eased a bit, she opened her eyes and saw Amma sitting on the floor in front of her, her face streaked with faint tear marks, her fingers pressing her eyes. She was muttering, “Why don’t you listen to me my child, why? Why are you ruining your life? Why?”
“Amma,” she said through her tearful face, “why do you beat me? I have not done anything. I was only playing with it. Why don’t you beat those people? I didn’t do anything. They even pull down my skirt down in the market and laugh at me and keep calling me, “Mad, mad”. But I don’t do anything. I wanted to throw stone at them and bite them. But I didn’t do anything because you say. Why don’t you beat them?”
“Why don’t you understand my child, why don’t you understand? I know those people are animals. But didn’t I tell you to stay away from them? They just want to prove you are mad, just like you Baba. It gives them pleasure.
I am working day and night to save for your dowry. Even I have dreams of seeing my daughter in her wedding dress—but you will ruin everything. Why will anybody marry a mad girl? Why? They will throw stones at you and call you mad. Mad. Like your Baba. Nobody will marry you. Nobody.”
She looked at Amma’s wretched, tearful face, and said wiping Amma’s tears with her fingers, “Amma, don’t cry. Amma, I am sorry. Very sorry.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down.
Amma slapped her.
“What will this ‘sorry’ get you now?”
Amma wrung her ears and rammed her head against the bed and kept slapping her. Amma’s bangles broke, some shards of which dug in her flesh.
“Why didn’t you die the day you were born,” Amma said. “Why? You are nothing but a curse on me. A curse. You never listen to me—you never try to understand things. My parents told me to kill you when you were born. But I didn’t. I loved you, I brought you up, but I was wrong. I should have thrust sand in your nose the day you were born. Why didn’t I do it!”
Amma released her hand from her ears. She lay down, curled up and sobbed. Amma went out. A fire was burning inside her. Fire of Anger. She cried and cried and cried but the fire didn’t extinguish; the flames leapt up with every tear, searing her from inside.
Nandu, her puny five-year-old brother was peeping from behind the door. He could see her lying on the floor, her face covered with her hair, the sound of her sobs filling the air with gloom. He came in and squatted in front of her, and kept the glass of water on the floor and gently pushed it towards her. She looked up at him through the tears. He was looking at her like a curious little kid looks at an unfamiliar insect; his head was bent at an angle, the light shone in his eyes, and his lips were wry, as if he could feel the pain. She raised her hand in the air, as if to hit him. He fell back and his head rammed on the door. He went out.
When Amma came in an hour later, she was still lying on the floor. Amma sat besides her and passed her fingers through her hair. She jerked away Amma’s hand and uttered a grunt. Amma sat still for a minute, looking at her.
Amma said, “Forgive your Amma.”
She started sobbing loudly.
Amma said, “Look up.”
She didn’t look up, because if she did, she knew she would melt.
“Please forgive your Amma. Look, I am holding my ears also. Forgive me, my child.”
She screeched and started banging her head on the floor.
Amma placed her palm between the ground and her head and said in a tearful voice, “No my child, don’t. Forgive me, please. Beat me if you want, I wont complain.”
She raised her head and looked up into Amma’s eyes; they were as wet as hers. Her anger faded away somewhere. Like always. She never knew where. She dragged her body forward and kept her head in Amma’s lap.
Amma caressed her hand and said, “Your Amma is so bad. She is a devil. When you go up, complain to God about her. Tell Him that she was a bad mother and she used to beat you—”
“No Amma, no.”
“No, my child, do tell him. Tell Him she was so bad to you. Tell Him to beat her with whips and throw her in hell.”
“Amma, no. Amma you won’t go to hell. No, you won’t go.”
Amma cradled her lap and said after some time in a calm voice, “This world is very harsh. If people think you are mad like your Baba, then who will marry you?”
“But Amma I am not mad.”
“I know my child, I know. And I know you were just playing with the tree. But people don’t understand this. It is because of Mohit’s family that your Baba is in this condition; just because of an old family feud. Now they are searching for clues—they want to prove to the world that you are mad, so that no one can marry you. Amma is just trying to save you. When Amma beats you, it hurts her more then it hurts you. But what can Amma do? She is also helpless. If you don’t listen to her, how will you get married?
Now, promise me, you won’t ever go in that area. Promise me you won’t even go beyond Ramlal’s shop.”
“Promise.”
“Good girl. If you listen to me, you will get married in a good place. I want to see you in a wedding dress and then I can die peacefully.”
“No Amma, you won’t die. Amma, no, I won’t let you.”
“No, my child, every body has to die one day.”
“No” she shrieked and burst into fresh tears.
Amma wiped her tears with her pallu and said, “OK baba, I won’t die. Now, I have made parathas, you want to eat?”
“No.”
“Why no? You have eaten only one apple since morning. And because of you I have also not eaten. We both will eat together. I will feed you with my own hands. Wait here, I’ll get the plate.”
Before going out, Amma bend down and thrust a one-rupee note in her hands, and whispered, “Buy nankhatai with this.”

After Amma had gone to Vasant Colony for cleaning the utensils, she beckoned Nandu, who was sitting in his underwear and shirt near the tulsi plant. Nandu put the insect he was surveying in his shirt pocket and ran after her.
She turned back and called out, “Nandu, run fast.”
His speed was slow as he took short steps and ran with his eyes firmly fixed on the ground for impediments. He uttered a feeble cry. She turned back and waited for him. He made his way over the boulders and rocks, and tightly clutched her skirt when he reached her. She held his hand and they ran towards the deserted garden behind the Municipal Corporation building. Baba was sitting cross-legged on a platform, under the tree, looking at the ground, drowned in deep, deep contemplation; the cotton thread tied around his ear waved in the air. She and Nandu went and sat besides him. Baba raised a hand in the air and moved his index finger rhythmically, as if doing a sum. He turned towards Nandu, who was watching him with utter concentration and opened his mouth to speak something. His mouth remained opened, as if he was about to make a grave point of observation and someone had rudely interrupted him. He rubbed away with his palm the sum he was doing in the air and patted Nandu’s back—at which Nandu almost fell off the platform—and said, “Hello, Nandi, how are you?”
Nandu looked at his sister. She said, “But Baba, he is Nandu, not Nandi.”
Baba’s eyes lost their mirth and again became clouded with confusion; he withdrew his hand, as if Nandu had at once become a child unfamiliar and strange.
Baba said, “But why do you change his name every week?”
“No, Baba, we don’t. His name was always Nandu.”
Baba looked at Nandu, then at her, and then at Nandu. He took out the small steel box from the sack kept near his feet. He once searched for newborn mice in the trash mounds and placed them in this box. He would look at the little, wriggling, pink bodies from the air-holes and say, “They look so happy.” He felt they were wriggling out of happiness, and to spread more happiness, stuffed more of them in. For mysterious reasons, he released them one day. He then started collecting a different thing in it.
He brought the box closer to her and Nandu, like a magician about to perform a trick, and said, “Very very cold air inside. I caught it in winter.” Baba slowly opened the lid and said, “Ah! So cold!”
“Yes Baba, very cold,” she said.
Nandu looked confused.
Baba raised the box up and snapped it shut, like he had caught a mosquito. He clasped it by his chest and quickly tied a string around it, and said, “I have caught hot air. Now we will open it in winter.” Nandu looked at the air-holes, and then at Baba, and then at air-holes. He scratched his head and was about to say something, when Baba kept the box back in his sack.
“What is this?” Baba said looking at the nankhatai she had held out to him.
“Baba, this is nankhatai. Eat it.”
She gave two pieces to Nandu. Baba surveyed the brown square pieces on his paper and then licked them.
“Baba,” she said, “you have to eat it. Like this.”
Baba reluctantly ate it.
She kept a piece from her paper to Nandu’s paper. He looked at her for clarification, and when he got none, continued eating. When one piece was left, he neatly wrapped it in the paper and kept in his pocket. He looked at his pocket in dismay, for the insect was gone. He took out a golden wrapper and unfolded it. Inside was a piece of Cadbury, not larger than a shirt button. He promptly held it towards her. She shook her head. He held it towards Baba.
“No Nandini, you eat it.”
Nandu started at Baba for a brief period, and then ate it. Suddenly, he pulled at Baba’s kurta and said, “Baba, Baba, see.”
He kept his leg on the platform and searched for something on it.
He found it. “Here Baba, here it is. I fell down yesterday. So I got hurt here.”
Nandu kept his little fingertip precisely on the wound—which was itself not larger than his fingertip. Baba chewed his nankhatai and looked at Nandu; his lips were bent downwards and his forehead had crinkled. Then he took another bite, chewed it and looked at the wound, which also looked crinkled. Then Baba looked at Nandu’s forehead. Then he looked at the wound, and blew air on it. Then he looked at Nandu’s forehead and blew air on it. Nandu put his leg down, content with the first blow and puzzled by the second. He talked to Baba about the various insects he had collected from the rocks near his house, and also told him that he had seen a double-decker dog yesterday.
Not much later, while she was licking the traces of nankhatai from her fingers, Nandu was giving his pocket a forlorn search for the insect and Baba was contemplating, the word “Paagal” slit the tranquillity of the evening as if by a scythe. They all looked around. A stone hit Baba and he uttered a loud cry.
She went to Baba and tried to soothe him.
She shouted, “Who is it?”
Another stone hit him. He was now weeping.
She stepped down from the platform, picked up a stone and looked around. A voice came from behind the bush, “Oye pagalni,” and then giggles. She said Saaley Kuttay, and threw the stone at the bush. A stone hit her on the head and she fell back. She wiped her nose and tears with her skirt, stood up and started picking and throwing stones frenziedly at the bush, shouting after each stone, “Kutteykaminayharamzaadey Kutteykaminayharamzaadey” One more stone hit her but she didn’t stop. The giggles died from behind the bush. She stopped. The stone was clutched in her hand, dried leaves and pebbles were tangled with her hair, her face was covered with marks of tears and dirt stuck to it, and her little chest was rapidly rising and falling. She wiped her tears with her palm ran back to the tree. Baba had tightly clutched Nandu’s hand and was sobbing.
She tugged at Baba’s grip and said, “Leave him, Baba.”
Baba loosened his grip after she bit his hand with her teeth. She picked up Nandu and back home. Fortunately, Amma hadn’t arrived till then. Amma had strictly forbidden them to talk to Baba, to meet him or to even look at him when they passed by him in the market. When Amma had seen her talking to Baba last year, she was whipped with a belt.
She and Nandu were sitting on their respective cots in the kitchen, and Amma was taking morsels of rice between her fingers and feeding them one by one. It was Nandu’s chance when they heard a knock on the door. Amma leaned back to see who it was when Nandu leapt forward and ate the rice from between Amma’s fingers. Amma told them to eat by their own and she went to the door. The telegram announced that Amma’s father had died. Amma hurriedly did some packing and went to her village with Nandu on a bus. Due to the lack of funds, she was to stay with Amma’s friend.
Amma returned three days later, at six in the morning. With Nandu in her hands, she went to the well to drink water. She noticed Nandu was staring at the peepul tree, where Baba was sleeping. “Nandu,” she said, “don’t look there.” Amma did not look at Baba for more than a second, but that was enough for her to know that her daughter as also sleeping next to him. The women who had come to fill water from the wells were looking at Amma; their eyes swollen with pity. She was sleeping within an arm’s distance of Baba; the dirt and mud stuck to her face, legs, fingers but not interfering with their calmness and serenity, her palms joined together and kept under her head like a pillow, a tiny smile on her face that seemed to say, ‘Don’t disturb! I am watching a good dream.’ Next to them lay a paper plate and spoons that smelled of last night’s chutney. Behind them, a board read, ‘Mad House. Do No Disturb.’ Amma threw the packet of rice she had brought on her face. The serenity evaporated from her face. She opened her little eyes and had brought her hand to rub them, when Amma held it and dragged her across the ground. A voice bellowed in the air, “Arre, why do you leave this creature in the open, huh?”
The payal unclipped from her feet. She cried, “Amma, my payal, my payal. Wait.”
But Amma didn’t wait. She saw as the payal slowly drifted away, and was soon just a fleck of whiteness in the brown morning dust. When they reached home, Amma pushed her towards the tap. She said, holding her bleeding lip, “Amma, no Amma, I’m hurt.”
“Haramzadi, why did you go and sleep there? I told you not to go that side of the basti, didn’t I?”
“Amma, those people made me sleep alone. But I can’t sleep alone, I’m afraid.”
“You slept there daily?”
“Yes, Amma, but I was afraid. I can’t sleep alone.”
Amma picked up the metal bucket and threw it on her, and said “I will kill you today.” The sharp rim hit on her head and she fell on the ground. “Amma, no.” She tried to stand up and run away; but the thick film of tears had made it hard to see: she collided with the tap and fell back. “Amma, no,” she cried. She tried to stand up but something hit hard against her thighs. She saw Amma was holding something in her hands. The bat with which she beats wet clothes. She heard Nandu’s cries. Another blow; this time on her back. She coughed; her red sputum fell on the ground. The next blow made face fall flat on the red liquid. She heard a sound of banging, but felt no pain. She turned her head. Amma was banging her head on the wall. Nandu was crying on the doorway. “Amma, no,” she cried and dragged herself near Amma and held her feet. She stood up with the support of her Amma’s legs and tried to pull away Amma from the wall. But Amma kept hitting herself. She shrieked, “Amma no, Amma no.” She went between Amma and the wall and tried to push her away, but no avail. “Nandu,” she cried, “Nandu help me. Amma beating herself. Nandu come.” But Nandu didn’t come.
Amma cried, “I want to die. I don’t want to see my own daughter being admitted to a mental hospital.”
“No Amma, no. Get away from wall. I’m sorry.” Amma kicked her. But she stood up again and held Amma’s feed and tried to pull her off the wall. Amma rested her forehead against the wall, and wailed.
Amma said, “Now I feel I have started believing people. Perhaps my daughter really is mad. It’s all because of me. Me. Why didn’t I die before I gave birth to you?”
“No Amma, no. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.”
Amma turned back and saw her daughter coughing out red sputum and trying to say sorry, holding her earlobes, her feet red with bat marks, squatting up and down. Amma held her hand and pushed her in the room and closed the gate from outside. Amma’s loud, painful wails seemed to linger in the air like a dying bird with feathers of pain. She cried, “Amma no, Amma, don’t cry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.” But Amma cried. She stood on the stool and looked out from the opening in the wall. Amma had crouched near the gate. “Amma, sorry. Sorry, Amma. Forgive me.” She held her earlobes and squatted up and down on the stool. But Amma still cried. Her feet shook with pain; she sat down on the stool. Then she heard Amma’s curses. She stood up and looked out. Amma was standing near the main gate, hollering abuses at some men, who were laughing at some distance.
The air was filled with the silence of a ransacked graveyard, but Amma’s wails still echoed in her ears. She now clawed her ears and twisted them and tried to pull them off; but they remained, and so did the wails in them. She was a devil, causing misery to everyone, including her own mother, her Amma. She remembered how the women would taunt Amma, telling her to throw to her daughter in the well to ward off the evil shadow, and how Amma would hold her and Nandu’s hands and walk away, saying nothing, with just tears rolling down. At home she would hide behind the gate, thinking Amma would throw her in the well, and when Amma saw her, she would cry and say, Amma please don’t throw me in the well; and Amma would wipe her tears, hug her, and feed her with her own hands and tell her that she is a piece of her heart and no one can throw her piece of heart in the well. How much Amma loved her. How much. Amma should have thrown her in the well. She was the reason for Amma’s tears. She felt like she was a mistake, a sin, whom Amma bore for years, without complaining. Amma worked so hard – from seven in the morning till nine in the night – washing utensils, cleaning floors, sweeping streets; and all this to feed her. Feed her. Feed a mistake. And that too with her with her own hands, never complaining when she bit it, never telling her to work in tea shops like other mothers do; loving her, loving again, and again, and more, loving a mistake. Amma even said she wished she had enough money to send her to school. She saw the tear of a failed dream in Amma’s eyes then. How much Amma wanted to give her. How much. She now clawed her face with her little fingers; red lines of pain formed. How much. She now rammed her fist on the wall. When she would wake up in sleep and start crying, Amma would make her sleep in her lap and then all the fears all the worries all the pains would go away, whoosh, like a rocket that never was; Amma would sing lullaby for her and tell her that she is her moon. A small piece of herself. Her world. Her everything. Amma never ever said she was a mistake. Never ever. The tears had now formed a small puddle on the ground. Poisonous tears. Tears shed by a mistake. Why did Amma love a devil so much? Why? More tears now fell in the puddle. Amma hit her only for her good. Her good. Only because Amma wanted her to get married and live a good life. More tears fell. And more. And then more. Amma would say, I will give you a red saree on your wedding, and you will look like a princess in it. She now picked up the stone and brought it down on her hand. Amma wanted to give so much to her daughter. She again brought down the stone and grunted with pain. So much. Again the stone came down, and then again. So much. And then once more. She felt something burning inside her. Fire. She fretted her teeth. Her tongue tasted the sweet blood. She was giving pain to the person because of whom Amma was crying. The flames leapt up. She clenched her hair and tried to pull them off. She banged her head on the floor. The fire seared her. She looked at her hands, hands of a mistake - she hated the design of her fingers, her red skin, her flesh, the sound of her cries, her existence. She the held her fingers between her teeth and bit them. Pain. Consoling pain. She was biting Amma’s miseries; biting a devil, biting a mistake. She turned her head and saw Nandu’s face in the window. He was trying to keep the glass of water on the sill. She leapt up towards him and held his wrist and pulled it. The glass fell down and he winced in pain. She bit his palm with her teeth. He started crying. She clutched his warm, shivering, fragile neck. She pushed his head from the window; he fell down from the stool he was standing on and ran back in the house. Seeing him cry, wince in pain, the fire ebbed, but only for a second. Now it leapt up again; with sound and with fury. She wasn’t able to breathe. She shrieked. The fire was in her throat. She clenched her throat and pressed it; she wanted to kill self. She liked the pain. Sweet pain. Soothing Pain. She gasped for breath, coughed, cried. She coughed, coughed again, coughed more. She wanted the blood to come out. She wanted the life to come out. The tears didn’t seem to dry up; they kept coming.
Amma opened the door two hours later.

It was two in the night when she opened her eyes, drew aside the blanket and crept in darkness towards the trunk. She spread her blanket on the floor, and quietly opened the large trunk. An assortment of smells burst forth, like a secret anxiously waiting inside, pervading the dull darkness of the night with a strange feeling of joy. Smell of a little boy who followed a little girl even before he knew who she was. Smell of a boy who loved before he knew the laws. Smell of a mother whose lap promised a sleep without nightmares. Smell of a mother who smelt like love. Smell of a love that always spilled beyond its boundaries. Smell of a love that never made you search old memories for happiness. Smell of a house where three people cried if one got hurt. Smells that she had grown up smelling. Smells she was smelling for the last time.
She turned back; Amma and Nandu were sound asleep. The trunk was divided by plyboards into three compartments; above each it was inscribed with a brick, ‘Amma’, ‘Nandu’, and ‘Neetu’ respectively. As she felt the rough cloth of her green dress, a dimpled smile came on her face. She kept it on the blanket along with the red dress and her undergarments, all of which Amma had washed the day before and neatly folded in the morning. She looked at Amma’s compartment – barren, dull. The smile shrunk from her face. She opened the wooden box from her compartment – a small Ponds cream, a comb hiding from dust inside its plastic wrap, a packet of bindis. She looked at the large comb with broken teeth in Amma’s compartment. She kept her comb and her bindi packet in Amma’s compartment and kept Amma’s large comb on her blanket. After a minute of thinking, she kept the Ponds cream also in Amma’s compartment. From her savings box, she kept a ten-rupee note over Amma’s saree and the rest on her blanket. She kissed the words ‘Amma’ and ‘Nandu’ and quietly closed the trunk. She kept aside her Hot Wheels car, her only toy, and knotted the blanket. She kept her car next to Nandu and a paper slip next to it; it read in Hindi, ‘Now it is yours.’ She whispered, “Bye” and kissed his hand and moved sideways to Amma. She looked at Amma’s face like a child looks at his birthday gift. A dimpled smile appeared on her face, and the past and future melted away into oblivion and what existed was only the present – which was nothing but a happy dream. She surveyed Amma’s eyes, nose, lips, ears, hair, skin. She joined her hands and prayed to God that she never forgets this face. She bent down and kissed Amma’s hand. Lured by its warmth, she rested her cheek on it. Tears came in her eyes, as if someone had snatched away that gift from the child. She snivelled. She couldn’t take her face away from Amma’s hand. One second more, she said to herself, just one second. Finally, she pulled her face away, keeping the last second as a memento. She crept towards the trunk and wiped her tears with the blanket. She knew she had to go before she gets weak. She picked up the blanket by its knot and walked towards the gate, after looking at Amma once again. Outside, the world was asleep, draped in an ebony blanket. She crouched by the doorway, and with the sack kept near her feet, she looked at Amma’s face while she waited for light. When day broke, she didn’t know why, it felt more dark. She pulled her face away from Amma and picked up her sack and walked out, after kissing the main gate.
As she walked towards the horizon, she wondered now who will feed her. She wiped her tears, and thought that she can always eat with her own hands, like most of the children. But—what if she wakes up in the night and cries? What will she do? She will cry a little and then she will go back to sleep. And what will she do if she misses Amma or Nandu? No, she reminded herself, she can’t go back. She was doing this for Amma. She reminded herself that she was a mistake. And by going away she was undoing this mistake from Amma’s life. But, this doesn’t answer the question—what will she do if she misses Amma and Nandu? She will try not to think about them. Yes, she wiped her tears, she will try not to think about them. But then—why is she crying? She kept the sack down and wailed. Why is she crying if what she is doing will bring happiness to her Amma? She didn’t know.
She turned back and looked at the house. Through the thin layer of mist, she could see Amma standing at the door. She wiped her eyes. Yes, Amma was standing at the door. She felt her feet shiver. She took a step towards Amma. In greed of love, she forgot what she was doing. She took one more step. Before she could throw aside the sack and run and hug Amma, she saw Amma go inside and close the door. She remained standing there, amidst the mist.