Born Behind Bars

by Padma Venkatraman

  At night, when I look up at my patch of sky, I see no moon, no stars, not a single point of light. How can I get ahead when I’m forced to leave behind the person I love most?

  13

  Three People

  That evening, I fall into a restless sleep but wake to something tickling my toes. A mouse’s quivering whiskers. Ugh!

  I yank my feet away and wave my hand at it. “Go!” I whisper, trying to shoo it away.

  Grandma Knife bolts upright. Her sharp ears hear everything. Her eyes take in the scene. She reaches for the stone she keeps beside her when she sleeps. Usually, I shut my eyes and listen for the pitiful squeak, because Grandma Knife’s stone never misses its mark.

  Maybe it’s the shock and anger of learning I have to leave, but something wakes up inside me, something as powerful as a searchlight, and I jump up and stamp my feet. The mouse darts out of our cell through a hole in the wall.

  “What’s got into you, boy?” Grandma Knife sounds amused, not annoyed. “We can’t risk having rodents running around. Who’s going to help us if they bite and we fall ill?”

  I shrug. Mice may carry disease, and rats scare me, but today I don’t think even they deserve to die.

  “You must be so upset, poor boy.” Grandma Knife’s voice gets sort of wobbly. She comes and sits near me. “But you’re going to be okay. Once you leave, you’ll need to think quickly, Kabir. Act fast to help yourself, just like you helped that mouse.”

  “I—I’m scared,” I confess.

  “Of course you are! You know what? I used to be scared of mice.”

  “Really?” Is she joking?

  “I never thought I’d be so great at getting rid of them,” she says softly. “I never thought I’d end up in jail either.”

  And I never expected to be leaving jail so soon—or without Amma. But maybe now I can find a way to make things better. “I want to find a way to save Amma,” I tell Grandma Knife. “You think I can do that?”

  “You’ll find a way, boy.” Grandma Knife bares her teeth at me in a rare—and real—smile. “God gave you a big brain, just like he gave me a big mouth.”

  I’m not sure what surprises me more: Grandma Knife giving me a compliment or Grandma Knife mentioning God.

  I return Grandma Knife’s smile. “Maybe I can find Appa. Why d’you suppose he stopped writing? You think he was a good man, like Amma always says?”

  “All I know is your mother’s a good judge of character—and that’s a gift she passed on to you. So if something doesn’t feel right, trust yourself and run as fast as that mouse.” She hasn’t answered my question, but I don’t mind, because she gives me another compliment. “You’ll be fine, boy. I have faith in you.”

  I used to count on two people believing in me—Amma and Bedi Ma’am. Now I realize there are three. Grandma Knife believes in me too.

  “And remember, Kabir, if you have to chuck a stone at someone to protect yourself, do it.”

  I picture myself throwing a tiny stone at Mrs. Snake’s back. In my head, she gives a satisfying yelp. “But my aim is not as good as yours, Grandma.”

  “I guess not.” She strokes her chin. “You can run a lot faster than me, though.”

  14

  My Father’s Mosque

  How much money should I return to you?” Bedi Ma’am asks.

  “Five rupees and forty-one paisa.” I can do arithmetic in my head, but it’s better using real paper rupees and shiny coins. I like the sound of coins clinking together.

  “Right.” She starts lecturing me. “Never forget to count your change. Bargain, like we’ve practiced, so if you have to buy anything, you’ll pay the lowest possible price. Never gamble. Never trust anyone who says they’ll give you a lot of money for an easy job. Save money, don’t spend it all . . .”

  The baby squawks, but Bedi Ma’am ignores her. She pays more attention to me now than ever before, though she smiles at me a lot less.

  “Now, here’s what a bus ticket looks like. If you get on a bus, you have to pay a man called the conductor.” She shows me a picture of a man in a khaki uniform.

  “He looks like a policeman,” I say.

  “He sort of is a policeman, for the bus. Never do things on a dare—like riding a bus without a ticket. Policemen like locking up poor, low-caste boys, so don’t give them any excuses, hear me?”

  “I won’t.” I smooth out the wrinkled ticket. “Ma’am, how long is a bus ride to Bengaluru? Where the Juma Masjid is? Amma says it’s the mosque where my grandparents worship.”

  “Bengaluru is a few hours away by train or bus,” she says. “It’s in another state, and unfortunately people in our state are fighting with people from there about sharing water.”

  “Oh, I thought it was only in jail that we didn’t have enough water.” Often in the summer we go for days without a wash because we don’t have enough running water.

  “No, water shortages are a big problem in lots of places.” Bedi Ma’am pulls out a map to explain further. “We’re here in Chennai, this dot is Bengaluru city, and this blue line is a river. The river runs through our state and theirs. The government decides how much water we each get—but the people still fight. A few days ago, a mob here beat up a man just because he spoke Kannada and came from Bengaluru, like your parents. So be careful outside. Make sure to just speak the local language. The streets are full of angry people waiting to hurt someone else.”

  My teacher makes the outside world sound scary—full of adults who aren’t any better at sharing than my classmates Shyam and Srikant, who play tug-of-war with every book and toy.

  The next day, Bedi Ma’am brings me a picture of the Juma Masjid mosque. It’s beautiful and bright, and more colorful than the faded old drawing Amma saved for years along with Appa’s letters. I imagine I’m standing in front of it with my father—but then Bedi Ma’am pulls the photograph gently out of my hands and demands, “Pay attention, Kabir!”

  It’s a scorching-hot day and the air feels stale because there’s been another power cut. A row of ants crawls in from the courtyard, and Shyam and Srikant start stomping on them. Usually Bedi Ma’am would tell them off, but today she ignores them. She doesn’t even try rescuing books that Chandar munches on. She’s too busy telling me a million things.

  Right now, my teacher clearly doesn’t care about ants or anything except making sure she can pour as much information into me as possible in the time we have left.

  My head feels like an overfull bucket.

  15

  Uncles and Orphanages

  At recess, I try and try to explain to Malli why I have to leave. “One day you’ll leave, too, with your mother.” I hope that’s true.

  But Malli isn’t listening. All morning she looked away whenever I tried to talk to her, which wasn’t often, with Bedi Ma’am so focused on educating me.

  Now she marches off and starts playing ball with Chandar, even though he can barely throw and definitely can’t catch. For a while, I sit all alone under the skinny neem tree.

  Finally I get tired of being ignored. I snatch the ball out of Malli’s hands and burst out, “It’s not my fault Bedi Ma’am is spending so much time with me! I didn’t ask her to!”

  “You’re going away!”

  “Because I have to! Can’t you understand? I have no choice. None of us do!”

  She pouts. Any other time, I might have laughed because she looks funny with her mouth all puckered up. But I tell her, “I’m scared about leaving. And I’ll miss you. I’m as sad as you are!”

  “Who says I’m sad?” Malli lashes out. “I’m happy you’re leaving. I hate you!”

  Her words hurt. But when we return to the classroom, Bedi Ma’am tells me something that drives away every other thought. “They’ve found your family, Kabir.”

  “My father?” My heart starts spinning, fast as a top.

 
“No. Your uncle.”

  “My—I never even knew I had an uncle.”

  “I guess you do.” Bedi Ma’am smiles. “He isn’t a direct uncle—they said he’s your father’s cousin, not your father’s brother—but I’m so glad they found him. I really didn’t want you ending up in an orphanage.”

  An orphanage? Amma grew up in an orphanage and said it was awful. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t even know that was a possibility.

  16

  Home

  As soon as I return to our cell, I tell Amma the news in our own language because I don’t want everyone else knowing.

  Mouse Girl scowls. It irritates her that Amma and I can chat in a language she doesn’t understand, though Amma’s told her we’re not saying anything about her.

  “Why can’t they just send me to Appa?” I ask.

  “Your father is somewhere in Dubai, Kabir. That’s too far away. But your uncle is right here, in this state, in Chennai city, close to our jail.”

  “Did Appa ever tell you about his cousin? Did you ever meet him? Is he nice?”

  “I never met anyone in his family. I never even knew he had a cousin who lived around here.” Amma gives me a sad smile. “They told me he works at the same place your father and I worked.”

  “I don’t want to go there. The family didn’t trust you.”

  Amma shrugs. “Rich people never trust poor, low-caste maids like me. They weren’t cruel to your father—or even to me, really. They just assumed I stole and didn’t bother to find out the truth. It’s what rich people do.”

  “Don’t you ever get angry, Amma?”

  “I used to. I even fought with our guard at first.” Amma smiles at my surprise.

  It’s hard to believe Amma ever fought with Mrs. Snake—I would love to see that.

  But right now, seeing Amma’s sad smile makes me feel angry enough for the two of us. I’ll never forgive that rich family for locking Amma up without giving her any chance to explain. It’s their fault I’ve been in jail all my life.

  “It’s nice of this uncle to take you in,” Amma says. “If he’s your father’s cousin, I’m sure he’s a good man.”

  “You think he’ll like me? Even though I’m half Hindu?”

  “I’m sure he’ll love you. How could he not?” Amma closes her eyes and brings her palms together. “I’m grateful to God you’ll finally have a proper home.”

  “This is home,” I say.

  “No,” she says. “This is jail. Home is where you’re looked after by people who love you.”

  “Then this is home,” I argue. “Because you love me.”

  “It’s still jail,” she repeats. “People will assume you’re bad if they find out you were born here, so don’t be talking about it.”

  Suddenly, I’m scared I might cry. And even though we’ve been speaking in Kannada, Amma and I, everyone else in our cell must see I’m upset.

  Aunty Cloud waddles over and puts a warm arm around my shoulders.

  Grandma Knife says, “Don’t worry, boy. There’s nothing you can’t handle.”

  I must look really pitiful, because even Mouse Girl reaches out to give me a swift pat on the back.

  17

  Last Words

  Ma’am, do you think there’s a way I can help Amma get out of jail?” I ask my teacher on my last day of jail school.

  “Why not?” Bedi Ma’am says. “You can try to do anything. If you study hard, maybe you can become a lawyer when you grow up.”

  I’m about to let her know that I’m not going to let Amma stay here until I’m all grown up, but Malli edges up to us and pats my back, the way Bedi Ma’am pats the baby’s back when she howls. I guess Malli decided she doesn’t hate me anymore.

  “You can do anything, Kabir,” she tells me. “Except beat me in a race.”

  “You know what?” I grin at her. “I bet you’ll beat everyone at everything when you get out of here.”

  Bedi Ma’am holds out the butterfly box to me.

  “You’ll grow as quickly as a caterpillar when you leave here,” Bedi Ma’am says. “And you’ll brighten the world, I’m sure of it.”

  I open the box. “Goodbye,” I whisper to the butterfly. “And thank you.”

  “You can have it, Kabir. Take it with you.”

  The butterfly is the first beautiful thing I’ve ever owned. I turn the box over and over in my hands as I thank her.

  “Will I ever see you again?” Malli hugs me tight.

  “Why not?” I echo Bedi Ma’am’s words, and I hug her back just as hard. Bedi Ma’am joins us, and the three of us are wrapped up together for a bit.

  After we let each other go, I touch the butterfly one last time. I can do what I want with it. Because it’s all mine.

  It means so much to me that I give it to Malli.

  Her eyes grow bigger than ever.

  For a moment I wonder if Bedi Ma’am is upset that I gave her gift away. But Bedi Ma’am smiles.

  She understands what I can’t say.

  18

  Behind Me

  Our last night together in our cell, Amma draws me onto her lap as if I’m a baby again. I’m glad, because I feel like a baby.

  I wish I could scream and cry like the baby in the schoolroom. Instead, I stare at my sky square, in which a thin slice of moon is glowing.

  Amma doesn’t tell me any stories. Just sings me a lullaby she’d sing when I was a baby. “Nila, nila va va . . . nillamal odi va.” Moon, moon, come running to me . . . climb over the mountain and bring a jasmine flower.

  The words are confusing—the moon doesn’t have hands to bring flowers. I feel so helpless that I can’t even understand what a lullaby means.

  But I don’t want to think about the song or where I’ll be going on my own or how far away Amma will soon be. I want the sad, scary questions in my head to shut up so I can listen only to Amma’s beautiful voice. I want my silly heart to stop flopping around in my chest so that all I’ll feel is the warmth of Amma’s arms around me.

  I stare at my square of sky until I drift into what feels like the shortest sleep of my life.

  Familiar noises wake me to the worst day of my life. Chains rattle, keys clink, locks squeak, hinges complain.

  Amma knocks the breath out of me squeezing me to her chest. I don’t complain. I want to be held tighter, until she squeezes all the feeling out of me.

  “Every single day,” Amma says, “I’ll think of you out there, and that will make me happy.” Her voice is steady as she steers me toward the door, where a policeman waits.

  My voice sticks in my throat like the wrong key in a lock. I can’t get any words out.

  Aunty Cloud pulls me into a quick hug.

  Mouse Girl says, “Be careful out there. Stay away from policemen. Be safe.”

  Grandma Knife puts her hands on my shoulders. Her touch is surprisingly gentle. “Kabir, I’ll look after your mother. Your job from now on is to look after yourself.” Then she grins, displaying her uneven teeth. “I’d give you my blessings, boy, if I thought they’d do you any good, but all I can do properly is curse.”

  Amma forces a laugh and gives me a gentle push. “I don’t have anything to give you, either, except words, Kabir. So remember all I taught you. Go on. Go ahead. Don’t look back.”

  But I do look back before the door clangs shut. Through tear-blurred eyes I see Amma crumpled on the ground like a scrap of paper.

  19

  In the Outside

  The policeman leads me across a yard where flies swarm over a rubbish heap. We enter a low building where he barks orders at some other policemen. My policeman signs my name, Kabir Khan, in a great big book.

  Heavy metal doors open and lock behind us as the policeman leads me through a maze of rooms and out past a tall, spiky gate.

  It’s all happening too
fast. Every step is taking me farther away from Amma. I don’t want to leave, but my legs keep walking.

  Then we’re standing in front of a white police van that’s as big as our cell. Its windows are covered with wire mesh that reminds me of pictures of fishnets I’ve seen in books.

  The policeman motions for me to climb into the back of the van. The van’s walls and floor shudder and jerk as if it’s alive, and to my shock, as it lurches forward, my body slides around. I cling to my seat and try not to get dizzy as the world around us moves.

  I tell myself I’m free, I’m outside where I dreamed of going, but I feel like a fish in a net being lifted out of the water I’ve lived in all my life.

  We dart in and out between cars, trucks, and buses, like I’ve seen on TV. Except they’re not flat. Out here, they’re bigger than me, growling on the roads like monsters with huge eyes. My stomach churns.

  In my head, outside was peaceful. But the real world is busy with movement and noise. The blaring horns hurt my ears, and the fumes from the cars make me feel sick.

  The driver of the van pulls up in front of a huge redbrick building with a sign that says Police Station. On woozy legs, I stumble behind the policeman, into the building, and into a stuffy room where fans sway from the ceiling.

  My head is pounding so hard I want to lie down. I’m glad when the policeman orders me to sit and leaves me alone in a chair for a while.

  “Khan!” the policeman says. I think he means me, but when I look up, I see all eyes are on a man with muscles rippling under his shirt as he strides across the floor. He talks to the policeman for a minute and then stares at me.

  This must be my uncle. But why doesn’t he return my smile?