Born Behind Bars

by Padma Venkatraman

  Mouse Girl pushes her lips up in a pout. Then she blurts out the question Amma told me I should never, ever ask. “Why’re you in jail?”

  Amma’s eyes widen in shock. Aunty Cloud stares at the floor.

  “We. Never. Did. Anything. Bad.” Grandma Knife rubs her hands together as if she’s itching to slap Mouse Girl. “So shut up, or I’ll shut you up. Understand?”

  Mouse Girl gets it and hushes her mouth. Now I’m wondering what she did wrong, though I know better than to ask. I feel pretty sure that she probably did do something bad. I’ve always thought Grandma Knife did something wrong too.

  As for Aunty Cloud, I bet she’s as innocent as Amma.

  Before this, Amma was a maid in a house where a rich family lived. A house is a place filled with rooms, and all the rooms belong to just one family. In houses, doors are locked from the inside. In houses, doors don’t have bars through which guards can peek in anytime.

  Amma grew up in an orphanage and had been getting too old to stay there much longer, so she was happy to get a job that came with a room in the servants’ quarters.

  Appa worked there too, as a driver. He drove a huge car like the ones on TV. Amma says my appa was the kindest man. And the handsomest, with the darkest black hair and straightest black eyebrows. She says she saw a photograph of Appa’s father once, and the three of us look exactly alike.

  My parents fell in love, but because his family was Muslim and Amma was Hindu, he figured his family wouldn’t be happy about the relationship. So they married secretly, and he planned to tell them afterward, but before he did, before my mother even knew she was having me, a terrible thing happened.

  A guest in the big house accused Amma of stealing her diamond necklace, and the police locked Amma away. Amma said the police didn’t care if they’d caught the right person after they found out that Amma grew up in an orphanage and was low-caste.

  Because she was poor, she couldn’t get a lawyer to help her out. She never even got to stand in court and plead that she was not guilty.

  “When they stuck me in here, I almost lost hope, Kabir. Then I found out I was having you, and I started hoping again,” Amma told me. “You saved my life.”

  I didn’t actually save her life, not like heroes in the movies or anything. She only says that because she believes you sort of die inside if you stop hoping, even if your body keeps on going.

  7

  Songs

  The sky is turning as dark as the circles under Grandma Knife’s eyes when Mouse Girl starts whining again about the heat.

  Aunty Cloud cuts her off. “Why don’t you sing, Kabir? It always helps me forget how stuffy this cell is, so I can sleep better.”

  I close my eyes and start singing a song by my namesake—a saint called Kabir.

  Amma says he’s one of the few saints both Hindus and Muslims respect.

  My teacher, Bedi Ma’am, told me Kabir’s songs helped people come together in their hearts. She taught me some of them and told me what the words mean, because they’re in a language called Hindi.

  “What’s that ugly language you’re singing in?” Mouse Girl whines. “If you have to sing, can’t you sing in Tamil so I can understand?”

  I ignore her. People in different states in India speak different languages, and I’m lucky because I know more than one. Here in Chennai we speak Tamil, but my parents grew up in a nearby state where they spoke Kannada. Amma taught me how to speak that when I was a baby.

  I love talking to Amma in Kannada. I love that no one else here understands it. I love how, when we speak it to each other, it feels almost as if we’re alone, sharing secrets.

  My singing lulls Aunty Cloud, Grandma Knife, and even Mouse Girl to sleep.

  I wish it would help Amma fall asleep, too, but in the moonlight I can see her moving her lips in prayer, and I can hear her begging God to keep Appa safe and to please, please return him to us.

  8

  Visitors

  I guess my father must be a good man, because Amma loves him so much. And she’s usually right about people—smart enough to trust the right prisoners and stay clear of the mean guards.

  I know Appa cared about us, because Amma told me so. “He used to write letters. And visit us when you were a baby. He even put money in my jail bank account. By then he’d moved back to his hometown, Bengaluru, because he didn’t want to keep working with the family after they decided I was a thief.”

  Amma saved the letters Appa sent her from Bengaluru. One of them has a picture he drew of the mosque where he worshipped. His letters didn’t have a return address because he was living with his parents—and he hadn’t yet told them he had a wife. Amma says he was scared their different religions would be a big problem; Hindus and Muslims don’t often marry each other.

  “Bad enough I was Hindu—but a Hindu daughter-in-law who was in jail? They’d never have accepted that,” Amma says.

  The last time Amma heard from Appa, he wrote from a place called Dubai, where he’d moved for a new job. He said it would pay enough money for him to afford a good lawyer and get Amma out of jail. And then he’d come back and we’d all live together.

  At first, I thought Dubai was so far away he couldn’t send letters from there. After all, my teacher said it’s in a whole other country. When I grew older and realized you could send letters all over the world, I used to pester Amma, asking, “Why d’you think Appa doesn’t write anymore?”

  “I’m sure he has a good reason,” she’d reply patiently every time I asked. But as I grew older, I noticed how her voice would quiver and she’d turn away, so I stopped asking.

  Why did my father disappear? Now I only ask that question in my head.

  I like to think he’s working so hard that he can’t write. He’s too busy making lots of money. Because money does help—like Mouse Girl says. If you have enough money, you can pay bail to stay out of jail. If you have no money, they put you in jail and everyone forgets about you.

  Aunty Cloud is the only one in our cell whose family visits.

  The only visitors the rest of us get are insects. Cockroaches who sometimes land on us in the middle of the night. Spiders who spin webs, wispy as clouds, which I think are pretty, though the grown-ups disagree.

  And we also get ants, searching for a bite to eat or a toe to bite. They come crawling in like the sad thoughts that sneak in when I wonder why Appa disappeared. One of my saddest thoughts is maybe Appa stopped writing because he stopped caring about Amma.

  But whenever that worry enters, I drive it away as fast as I can, just as you have to chase away an ant as soon as you spot it. If you don’t, they invite others to join them. And soon you have an endless line of sad thoughts chewing at your heart.

  9

  Morning Sounds

  Our schoolroom is quieter and nicer than anywhere else in jail.

  To get to it, I’m allowed to walk across the grounds from the building where our cells are. It makes me happy to have a few minutes free to see how clouds can stretch across the whole sky, how they live in a world without any walls, and how there’s nothing to stop them from floating as high as they want, up above the tall watchtowers.

  But on Monday morning, while my friend Malli and I are crossing the dirt yard to our schoolroom, we hear the worst sound ever. Worse than angry, barking police dogs. Grandma Knife told me the sound means someone is being punished.

  “Hurry up, or we’ll be late.” I try to move Malli along quickly, hoping to distract her from the noise, but it’s no use. There’s no way to stop the scary moans from reaching her ears.

  “Is someone getting hurt?” she demands. “I heard that yesterday too, did you?”

  “Yes. I think it’s because we have that strict new warden in charge now. Let’s get inside quick.”

  “Race you!” Malli challenges.

  I usually don’t like racing because m
y legs aren’t as fast as Malli’s, even though she’s practically half my age. It isn’t fair that she’s nearly my height too. But I’m glad to leave the punishment block far behind us, and it’s nice to see Malli smiling as she reaches the schoolroom ahead of me.

  Malli’s always liked school. She’s too young to remember Mean Teacher.

  I hated school back when Mean Teacher ruled over us. Her favorite student was a bully like her, a girl called Suba, whom I called Tong Fingers. Suba used to pinch me every chance she got—and of course, Mean Teacher didn’t care.

  “I don’t want to go to school,” I’d cry to Amma back when Suba ruled the schoolyard, but Amma forced me to go.

  She’d say, “You have to go, because you have to learn to deal with cruel people like Suba and your teacher.”

  “Listen to your mother, boy!” Grandma Knife would agree. “When you leave, you’ll need to be smart in other ways, not just book learning. One of the most important things you need to learn is whom to trust.”

  Then Suba disappeared one day, and soon after, so did the horrible teacher.

  Before Suba left, she said she was going to the outside world with her mother because she was too old to be in jail.

  Maybe, maybe—at last—Amma and I can leave? Maybe this is what Grandma Knife meant? Maybe Bedi Ma’am will tell me?

  10

  The Scent of Jasmine

  Hope you had a happy birthday yesterday,” Bedi Ma’am greets me, a smile dimpling her cheeks. Everything about Bedi Ma’am is beautiful and round—curved eyebrows, wavy hair, plump body.

  “Here’s a little gift for you, Kabir.” Bedi Ma’am hands me a string of jasmine. She knows I love how it smells.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I stroke the white petals.

  The first time I remember smelling anything so wonderful was when I met Bedi Ma’am. I didn’t realize the sweet perfume came from the star-shaped flowers tucked into her braid. I closed my eyes and sniffed and sniffed, taking in as much air as I could. When she realized what I was doing, she took off the string of flowers and gave each of us a jasmine blossom.

  “Your name means this flower,” Bedi Ma’am had told Malli, whose eyes got wider than ever.

  “Except you don’t smell as good as a flower. In fact, you stink,” Shyam, the new class bully, told her, and his friend Srikant snickered.

  Bedi Ma’am made them apologize at once. Then she helped us put up our artwork, making our schoolroom’s walls as bright as butterfly wings.

  From then on, I loved coming to the schoolroom.

  These days, there are six of us kids—Shyam and Srikant, who are a little older than Malli and never stop wrestling each other; a three-year-old boy named Chandar, who’s always chewing on things; and a baby who doesn’t take up much space, except for her voice when she’s crying, which can fill our whole room pretty fast. Plus Malli and me.

  Bedi Ma’am tries to pull apart the fighting boys as I bury my nose in the jasmine flowers.

  “Let’s work on your puzzle,” Malli says. She means my favorite puzzle, with the picture of a river on it. It’s not mine, of course.

  Although some of the pieces are missing, I love putting the puzzle together and slowly seeing a whole world appear—a big, swirly river surrounded by trees and flowers. A world so different from our square rooms, with iron bars on every window, and lines of barbed wire that pierce our sky.

  11

  Unhappy Birthday

  Bedi Ma’am brought us sweets, like I’d hoped, to celebrate my birthday.

  Malli and the other children eat their sweets quickly, and Bedi Ma’am sends them off to play.

  “Now, time for your extra-special birthday treat,” she says. She unwraps a golden-yellow laddu and I inhale the scent of cardamom and cloves. They’re the spices that, Bedi Ma’am says, make my favorite sweet so tasty. I take a small bite.

  “You nibble like a mouse,” Bedi Ma’am says. Her fingers tap a nervous beat on the table. “Remember the rhyme about mice I taught you when you were little?”

  “Yes, Bedi Ma’am. I lock everything you taught me safe inside my head.”

  My eyes are closed, savoring each bite of sugary gold. When she speaks again, her voice is all fast, spilling words.

  “Kabir, I’m sorry. I never thought . . . I’m not sure how to say this . . . but the new warden says that you’re going to have to leave because you’re too old to stay here. No one insisted on it before because you’re so small for your age—”

  “What?” I open my eyes to try to see what she’s trying to say.

  “I hope I’ve prepared you well enough. You’re good with money. You know right from wrong. You’re a smart boy. But the world has so many bad people, and I never thought you’d be leaving so suddenly.”

  Leaving?

  “When you’re outside, just remember, you must look after yourself. Study hard. Get ahead.”

  Wait. Is she saying we are going to leave? Going to see—to live—in the world? The world! Me and Amma, at last!

  I jump up, leaving my half-finished treat on the table. I feel my smile stretching, stretching so wide it could wrap itself around the whole wide world. “When, Bedi Ma’am? When are Amma and I leaving?”

  “Slow down, Kabir. Not you and your mother. Just you. You alone.”

  “What?” I feel my smile shrinking.

  “Your mother has to stay, Kabir. She—well—they won’t release her.”

  “Then I’m not going.”

  “It’s not your choice, Kabir. Not mine either. The rules say you can’t stay here at your age.” Bedi Ma’am’s voice gets harsher than usual. “Unfortunately, you and I can’t change rules.” Then her voice softens again. “But you’ve always wanted to explore the outside, no? You’re a big boy now. You need to go to a bigger school. And they’re trying to find your relatives. Don’t you want to meet them?”

  Not without Amma. I collapse into my chair.

  “When?” I whisper at last.

  “By the end of the week. I’m just sorry I had to spring it on you so suddenly. I never knew this rule until the new warden took charge. I begged her to give you a little more time to adjust.” Bedi Ma’am’s words rush out. “The old warden didn’t care so much about rules. This one does. I just wish she’d care about people too.” Bedi Ma’am shakes her head. “Anyway, don’t worry, Kabir. I know you. You’ll be fine.”

  If she’s so sure I’ll be fine, why have Bedi Ma’am’s eyes become rivers?

  I pick up the rest of the laddu and stuff it into my mouth, but it doesn’t taste sweet anymore.

  “Want to hold your butterfly?” Bedi Ma’am takes down a tiny box from the highest shelf. Inside is a dead butterfly—one that fluttered over the barbed wire and into our classroom a year ago.

  Bedi Ma’am had to hold the boys and Malli back so they wouldn’t hurt it. But I stood very still, it landed on my finger, and I took it outside and put it on a branch of the tree in the schoolyard.

  Bedi Ma’am showed us pictures of plump worms called caterpillars and said that’s how butterflies begin. Then caterpillars go to sleep inside a thing called a cocoon they make to protect themselves. And one day, they burst out of the cocoon, carrying rainbows on their wings.

  Next morning, I found the butterfly dead in a corner of the yard.

  “Last thing it did was visit us,” Bedi Ma’am said. “Maybe to show you how colorful the world can be. And how beautiful.”

  We decided to save it, and I carefully picked it up again and helped Bedi Ma’am put it in a box lined with cotton.

  “Kabir,” she asks me now, “remember what I told you about caterpillars bursting out of cocoons, all rainbow colored?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I stroke the butterfly’s wings with the tip of a finger.

  “Butterflies look so delicate, but they’re strong. And brave. And smart. No on
e teaches them how to use their new wings. But they’re ready to try, all on their own.”

  12

  Promise

  Back in the cell, Amma’s puffy face and red-rimmed eyes show me that someone has told her the shocking news. But I tell her again anyway. “I have to leave. The new warden says it’s the rule.”

  “About time,” Grandma Knife growls. “You can’t live with us all your life.”

  “That’s right,” Amma says, and her mouth turns up in a tight rubber-band smile that snaps back too fast. “I’m so happy for you, Kabir. You’ll get to see the world, like you’ve always wanted.”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” I say.

  “No,” Amma says. “Of course not.”

  For a minute I think she’s planned a daring escape. But then she just says, “I’ll be inside you always, Kabir. In your head and in your heart.”

  Doesn’t she know that’s not enough?

  Aunty Cloud pats my shoulder, but her touch can’t comfort me.

  “I’ll do something bad as soon as they let me out so they’ll send me right back here!”

  “Boy!” Grandma Knife cackles. “You think if you commit a crime, the police give you a choice where to go? You think they’ll send you back into your mother’s arms?”

  “Kabir, I never want to see you back here,” Amma says slowly. “Once you leave, all I want from you is a letter once in a while. I don’t even want you visiting and making people wonder if you did something wrong. Promise me you won’t ever set foot in jail again after you leave.”

  My eyes gaze at the dirt-stained hem of her underskirt.

  Amma hugs me, but she says, “When you get out, don’t waste a minute looking back. Get ahead, that’s what you need to do. Make me proud of you.”