by Katy Yocom
“I’ll give her the message.” Sarah gathered her bag and hurried through the rain to the waiting vehicle.
.
Sawai Madhopur to Delhi was an eight-hour trip by car, from the desert where camel carts swayed down the verge to ever-widening highways and an ever-greater influx of traffic. When they crossed from Rajasthan into Haryana state, the roads improved, and suddenly the signs offered information in both Hindi and English. And by the time they crossed from Haryana into the capital territory of Delhi itself, they became one with an endless traffic jam: garlanded lorries swaying and honking, motorbikes, cars, yellow-and-green auto-rickshaws belching noxious exhaust, pedestrians, and the occasional wandering cow all surging forward in a slow, disorderly crush. Though lanes were painted on the macadam, the concept of keeping one’s vehicle between the lines did not hold sway. Hari broke his silence just long enough to praise his good fortune for being a Sawai driver and not one of his unfortunate counterparts in this misbegotten mess.
When Sarah had climbed into the vehicle in Sawai, Geeta glanced at the paper in Sarah’s hand and said, “Incredible,” though her tone said something more like idiot. Since then it had been a mostly silent ride. William, seated next to Sarah, offered a kind smile from time to time and handed her a copy of Down to Earth to show her an article he’d found interesting. Now that they were snarled in Delhi traffic, Sarah leaned forward and tried out a version of Drupti’s argument on her boss.
Geeta turned in her seat and regarded Sarah levelly, her silence accentuated by the unceasing bap-bap of auto horns. She had not explicitly reversed herself on firing Sarah. “Supposing you’re right. The footage causes a minor sensation, and for a few weeks people get excited about the idea of saving the tiger. What good does that do? We don’t get our funding from individual donors. And I don’t see government bureaucrats or foundation boards getting swept up in the romance of your rescue stunt.” She turned to face forward as if to declare the conversation over.
“Why not? They’re human, too.”
Geeta sighed, pulled down the sun visor, and pinned Sarah with a glare via the mirror. “They’re policy makers. They understand the realities of the situation. The danger to tigers is not about getting swept into rivers in flood. It’s a complex set of problems with no good solution in sight. And anyhow, imagine if that tigress had got hold of you with cameras rolling. Have you thought what that footage would look like?”
“Yes, I’ve imagined it,” Sarah said. “Terrible publicity.”
“Look, there’s only one thing for it. I’m planning to tell the assistant director that I’ve asked for your resignation.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” William asked.
“I’m not wrong.”
He smiled with the right side of his mouth. Geeta turned around and asked what he found so bloody amusing.
“I’ve watched you go a lot of rounds with these bureaucrats,” he said. “You’re too canny to make pronouncements like that. I know how you operate. You’ll get a feel for their leanings before you say a word.”
“I’ll walk in and say my piece straight out. I operate that way, too, you know. You’ve seen me do it.”
“All right, then. Do what you think best. Shame you haven’t seen the footage, though. It’s out there, for anyone who’s got broadband. Which Assistant Director Gopalan undoubtedly does.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You realize, don’t you, that there’s much more on the line than Sarah’s position. It’s your bread and butter, too. And mine, and Sanjay’s. It’s your lakes. Sanjay’s educational program. Everything. If the money dries up, all that’s finished.”
“You don’t know that the money will dry up,” he said. “This is exactly my point. Wait and see how things play out.”
“But what things? There’s the Project Tiger grant we’ll talk about at tomorrow’s meeting,” she answered herself. “And the Wildlife Conservation Society grant we’ll hear about in the next few weeks. Two big indicators. Yes, I think you’re right. Those grants will tell us what we need to know.” She opened her bag, pulled out a can of cashews, and ate one, visibly thinking as she chewed.
“But it’s not quite that simple, is it?” William said. “We might or might not get those grants regardless. You can’t lay all that at Sarah’s feet.”
She gave him a level look. “What do you want, then, William? You’re asking me to give her a chance. Fine. This is her chance. Frankly, you’re so keen to let her keep her position, I’d think you’d be overjoyed I’m giving her this much rope. You know”—and here she offered him the can of cashews, as if they weren’t in the midst of an argument—“five years you’ve been here, and this is the worst row we’ve had.”
Sarah sat very still, the better to remain invisible.
“You can’t deny she’s been a good addition to Tiger Survival,” William said, taking the can. “We’d been understaffed and on the verge of burnout, all three of us, for a long time.” He popped a cashew into his mouth and watched Geeta as he ate it. Sarah wanted to laugh.
“She’s been helpful. True enough.”
They pulled up to the hotel, and the conversation paused as Hari unloaded luggage. Sarah grabbed her bag and started for the hotel. Behind her, she heard Geeta say to William, “I thought perhaps you were beginning to have feelings for her.”
Sarah forced herself not to glance back, though she was dying to see the look on William’s face.
“You’re allowed, you know,” Geeta said. Sarah nearly dropped her suitcase.
“You’d rather this was about some sort of romantic feelings, wouldn’t you,” William said. “You’ve spent your life at this work, but who’ll be there to take it up when you’re gone? We’re the past, you and I. Sarah and Sanjay are the future.”
The whole conversation amazed her. The fact that William would tell Geeta that her work would someday end. Sarah wouldn’t have dared. What must their marriage have been like? She couldn’t imagine.
.
“Yes,” said Assistant Director Gopalan. “I’ve seen the footage. Most alarming. Most alarming.”
“Of course, Tiger Survival is prepared to take the appropriate action,” Geeta said.
The assistant director leaned back in his swivel chair. He was a soft man, and his short-sleeved white shirt had become trapped on the left side in a crease of flesh. He reminded Sarah of her high school principal, right down to the fact that everyone referred to him by his title. She found herself fighting back nervous laughter.
Gopalan tugged the fabric free and regarded Geeta down the length of his nose, ignoring Sarah and William. “The appropriate action. I see. And what would that be?”
“We cannot and do not support such recklessness in our employees. Nor interference with the tigers, obviously.”
“I should think not. Shame to waste such good publicity, though. That footage. Extraordinary.”
He was baiting them. Sarah could see it in the way his hand moved methodically, stroking his mustache while he talked. When his words stopped, so did his hand, the thumb and forefinger suspended on either side of his mouth. Only his eyes moved, watching their reactions.
“Actually, we haven’t seen it,” Geeta said.
Gopalan’s eyes flared. “How is that possible? Everyone with electricity has seen it. Several times.” He gestured at the computer monitor on his desk. “Come around here. I’ll show you.”
He offered Geeta his chair. William and Sarah stood behind her. The video loaded and the scene played out: Sarah and the cub grappling before she heaved it to land. Geeta watched, expressionless, her knuckles pressing white spots into her cheek. When it ended, she returned to her seat. “Fancy that.”
“A lot of people do fancy it,” Gopalan said. “It’s quite sensational.” He straightened a pile of papers on his desk. “In fact, it was a cheap stunt. What’s more, it’s
something no Indian conservation worker would have done.” He fixed Geeta with a glare. “Look at the people you’ve brought into your organization. The Englishman, first of all. Then this American woman. One lone Indian man to add the local flavor. May I remind you, Ms. Banerjee, that the tiger problem is an Indian problem, and it’s Indians who will solve it.”
Geeta’s long body had grown still while Gopalan spoke. She smiled artificially. “I couldn’t agree more. And as a responsible Indian citizen, I am doing what I can to find solutions to the problems facing the tiger.”
Gopalan steepled his fingers. “No one has more respect for your conservation work than I do. But the actions of your employee are drawing the wrong kind of attention to the conservation effort.”
“And what’s the wrong kind of attention?”
“Suddenly everyone is asking why it’s a white woman saving the tiger. Where are the Indians? Where is the Indian government? As if somehow the existence of this footage means we in Project Tiger are not doing our jobs.”
Geeta drew herself up. “Mr. Gopalan, perhaps it’s not such a bad thing the public is beginning to question the bureaucracy. A little heat from the public, and perhaps more would get done here in Delhi.”
“Geeta,” William warned.
“No. It needs to be said.” Her voice rose. “For the past twenty-five years, our ministries have done nothing but cover up problems and inflate census counts and enact meaningless resolutions that aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. Meanwhile the tiger is about to disappear for good, and the Indian government hasn’t the will to stop it.”
The assistant director glared at Geeta. “Are you accusing me of corruption, Ms. Banerjee? Or only incompetence?”
“I was merely pointing out that the penalties imposed under Indian law are inadequate as a deterrent to poaching. And that nothing useful is happening on the government level to curtail encroachment. And that field organizations like Tiger Survival are able to respond quickly and effectively to situations as they arise.”
“Just as your American woman responded when the cub fell in the river,” Gopalan said. “Which conveniently happened in front of a professional film crew. An amazing coincidence, don’t you think?”
Sarah rose halfway out of her seat. “No one could have known that would happen. I know I violated a cardinal rule, but it all happened in a second. I acted on instinct.” Her hair tangled in her sutures. She pushed it away.
“Lovely scars you’re going to have there,” Gopalan said.
“Look,” Geeta said. “None of us is happy with what’s happened. Ms. DeVaughan’s continued employment is hanging by a very thin thread. You have my word no other missteps will be tolerated. That’s the best answer I can give you.”
William cleared his throat. “Mr. Gopalan, I trust you remember your last annual report mentioned Tiger Survival quite favorably. ‘A fast-acting and effective organization. Consistently achieves noteworthy results on a modest budget.’ This was written by your own staffers.”
“That was before your executive director hired Ms. DeVaughan.” He shifted his focus to Geeta. “I am frankly surprised at your choice, that’s all. It makes me wonder whether your judgment is going.”
“Ms. DeVaughan has proven herself a valuable asset,” Geeta said, surprising Sarah again. “I trust you’ve read Mr. Amesbury’s report. It’s filled with example after example of the good work we’re doing. Our lake-building efforts keep more village livestock out of the park every year. Step by step, we’re helping the villagers lift themselves out of dependence on the park’s resources. So I’m asking. What outcome should Tiger Survival expect in this round of grants?”
“Certainly the reports are good. But it’s hard for me to tell whether your organization is beginning to lose its focus.”
“And if we dismiss Ms. DeVaughan, is that the proof you’re looking for of ‘focus’?”
His expression turned brisk. “You’ll have our decision in a few weeks’ time.” The assistant director stood and straightened his blotter. “Good day, Ms. Banerjee. Good day, Mr. Amesbury. Ms. DeVaughan.”
Outside, Geeta turned to Sarah. “Your fate is riding on the two big grants we’ve got coming up. If they both come through, you can stay, assuming you behave as if you’ve a brain in your head. But no more stunts, Sarah.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Geeta gave her an assessing look. “I am glad the cub didn’t die. But you must know this is a years-long battle. The life of one tiger is not the issue here. Which reminds me—I heard from the park director today. Akbar’s been fighting. One of the forest guards spotted him with fresh wounds.” She and William exchanged a look. “Most likely this means there’s a younger male out there challenging him. Akbar didn’t look too beaten up, apparently, but once a young tiger starts challenging the resident male, they’ll keep fighting till one or the other gets killed. And if the intruder wins, his next job will be to kill the current generation of cubs, to bring the mothers back into heat.”
Sarah blanched.
“This is why you don’t go about endangering an entire agency for the sake of one animal.” Geeta shook her head. “Serves you right you have to get rabies shots.”
.
At the hotel, Sarah found herself at loose ends. Geeta and William had other business to attend to, and Sarah supposed they didn’t want her company any more than she wanted Geeta’s at the moment.
So here she was. Delhi.
Outside, under a thick gray sky, a line of auto-rickshaws waited for fares. She climbed into the first one, map in hand, and exchanged greetings with the driver, a small man with sleepy eyes and a copy of the sports section tucked beneath his thigh.
She gave him the address, and they were off, the racketous buzz of the unmuffled motor whining in her ears. She might as well be traveling by chainsaw. She’d never loved auto-rickshaws, the way they left your clothes and skin covered in tiny flecks of oil. She wished she had asked Hari to take her, but it was too late now. They were out in Delhi traffic, without air conditioning, without windows to shut out the auto horns, the diesel exhaust, the rain that had begun to spatter her shoes.
They traveled fitfully, stopping and going for no discernable reason. The rain picked up. Traffic stopped altogether, and the driver killed the engine and read the sports section.
What would it be like to see Cornwallis Road again, with its walled properties, bougainvillea, stately homes? Probably nothing was as grand as she remembered. She pictured the courtyard with the peepal tree and wondered if the bench would still be there. It was where she always thought of Daddy, sitting next to her, one minute cracking jokes and the next minute talking about how you owed the world something in exchange for your life.
Maybe the new owners would ask her to come in. Or maybe she should just stand outside the gate and look. Someone might have remodeled the house; she might not recognize the place.
Surely the peepal tree would still be there.
Traffic still wasn’t moving. The driver had disappeared completely behind his paper. She asked what was happening. “Stoppage,” he said. “Protestors have blocked the road.”
“What are they protesting?”
“They’re tollbooth workers. Another shooting in Delhi last week. The workers are shutting down traffic to demand better safety measures.”
“Did you know this was happening?” Sarah asked.
The driver glanced back at her. “Oh, yes.”
“Is there another route we can take?”
“Yes, but the other way will also be affected. The stoppages are happening all through Delhi these days.”
At least they’d agreed on a price before she got in. “Any idea how long we’ll be stuck here?”
He moved his head noncommittally. She glanced to her left and saw that two men in the next car were watching her. One of them grinned
and gestured, an invitation to join them. She frowned and looked away. On the other side, a driver shut off his engine, propped his feet on the dashboard, and lit a cigarette.
All around them, drivers had killed their engines, and the rain was knocking exhaust fumes to earth. So at least the air was clearing up. But here she was, wedged motionless in the middle of thousands of vehicles, as close to home as she would ever be again.
She asked to go back to the hotel. Now she appreciated the auto-rickshaw’s nimbleness. The driver knocked on windows one by one and convinced other drivers to back up or pull forward until, by inches, a barely navigable space appeared. He managed to steer the little vehicle between cars and onto the shoulder, then executed an illegal maneuver crossing the median.
At last they were back in motion, their speed creating a breeze in the thunderous air. They were moving—not in the direction Sarah had wanted to go, but it still beat sitting immobile.
Quinn
In the last of the late-afternoon light, Quinn stood at her easel, preparing to make a quick sketch of spring-green pears on a slate tile. She’d drawn something similar at the class she’d taught that afternoon, and it hadn’t come out right. This time, she exhaled deeply and shook out her shoulders before she drew, then worked fast. That method usually did the trick. But the finished drawing was lifeless. Lines on paper. She recognized that kind of work: the product of an artist who’d lost her touch but kept doggedly trying to fake it.
She placed her pastels back in their tray and did not allow herself a sigh.
If someone had asked her to draw her family life, she would have sketched Pete and the twins arrayed opposite her, wearing identical expressions of resentment. A cartoon bubble coming out of Alaina’s mouth: “You’re always following Nick around with the inhaler.” Quinn had come home from teaching a watercolor class one day to find the three of them in a sweaty pile on the living room floor after a game of backyard soccer. She had set down the mail, taking in the grass stuck to their knees and the color around Nick’s mouth. That was when Alaina made her complaint. The sentence had the ring of something repeated, something Pete had said.
