Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  Mrs. Gupta appeared in the doorway. “Jagaan,” she said. “Go and wash.” She picked up the pile of fresh cottons. “Take these down with you and put on something clean. You can leave your clothes there on the floor. We will lay a bed for you here. We will sleep in the next room.”

  “Thank you, Aunty.”

  • • •

  Jag steeped a cloth in the basin, water dripping to the floor as he brought it to his naked body, the outline of bone and muscle illuminated by the golden glow thrown out by the lone oil lamp. His skin bore scars here and there, superficial marks on his arms that would not stay for too long, a deeper twisted river across his shin where he had gashed it open as he leaped from the train. Another scar ran for three red inches just below his right shoulder blade, but he was not aware of it. He rinsed the cloth, the water clouding, and passed it over his face again, around the back of his neck, scrubbing hard. Bending forward, he dipped his head into the basin, massaging his fingers into his scalp, his hair slicking out into the water, grown long again since one of the nurses had cut it for him in the camp. He stood up, flicking his head back, a trail of water flying through the air behind him, spattering against the wall.

  Without warning, his reflection stared back at him, and he stopped, not recognizing it for a moment. It had been a long time since he had seen his own face, thrown back at him now in the small blackened window, the dim glass fractured across one corner. He leaned toward it and inspected himself, tipping his head back, lifting his chin, seeing the jut of his collarbone, the smooth, hard round line of his shoulder. He rinsed the cloth again, pressing it into the water, and washed his body, freeing his skin from the long journey, consigning it to the layer of grime that settled at the bottom of the basin.

  Upstairs, his aunt was waiting for him. His bed had been laid out. A mat and a colorful blanket sewn of myriad patches. And cushions, three of them, to arrange however he wanted. A cushion for his head, he thought, the one thing that he had stopped longing for more quickly than anything else. It was nothing more than a luxury, unnecessary for the purposes of survival. He had forgotten about cushions. He had forgotten about many things.

  “I hope you will be comfortable,” his aunt said.

  “It is a bed fit for a king,” Jag replied.

  Mrs. Gupta looked at him, so tired, so thin, sharp elbows poking through her husband’s cotton shirt. She was still reeling from the shock of it, that he had somehow found his way here. She knew of her sister’s son, of course, but they had never expected to see him. That was the way of it when sisters grew up and married away, moving into the households of their husbands, leaving their own families behind, often never to be seen again. A wife belonged to her husband and his family. It was the sons who stayed behind, bringing wives into households, swelling the family’s tribe. All these years, she had not even heard his name.

  And then the letter had arrived, and they had not known what to make of it. They had stared at it, as though it were some strange object just dropped out of the sky, wondering what it could be. Her husband had made the decision. He had opened it, peeling back the roughly made envelope, its folds stuck down with rice glue dried powdery white into the corners. Inside, folded small, had been a scrap of paper, so thin that he had shaken it open carefully, exposing patterned, foreign writing, its figures looped in thin pencil lines.

  “What is it?” she had asked, wringing her hands.

  “A note of some kind,” her husband had said. “It is written in English.”

  They studied it anyway, even though they were unable to read it. Mr. Gupta took it to the vegetable seller, and together they took it to the barber. He knew some English words, but the letter had made no sense to him either. The only person who would be able to get to the bottom of it would be Mr. Shirodkar, the advocate who lived on the corner. So they had taken it to him, the three of them, and he had told them what it said.

  “What should we do?” Mr. Gupta had asked his wife when he returned home many hours later. The men had discussed it at length in the advocate’s office, and the news was already sweeping through the street, passing quickly from door to door.

  Mr. Gupta had sat before his wife, watching her thinking. His wife was a wise woman. She was not afraid to speak the truth. Nor did she fear any man. She claimed she had no need to, for her husband would protect her from any man who came into her presence, and he would never wish her to be dishonest with her own husband. There had been times when he had wished he had married a less outspoken woman, but not often. He loved her very much, and her honest manner of thinking and clear advice had saved him from his own hot temperament many a time. Mrs. Gupta had thought long and hard before she spoke.

  “We know that Jagaan and his father left the palace months ago. They could be anywhere. They are probably dead.”

  “Yes,” her husband had said.

  “I believe that what the letter says is true,” she said. “Why else would someone send such a thing?”

  “Yes. I believe it too.”

  “And you ask me what should we do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I will ask you the same thing, husband. What should we do?”

  “I don’t know! That is why I am asking you!”

  Mrs. Gupta had taken his hand. “You and I, is our blood the same?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Then you forget, my blood is shared with my sister too. I had hoped to see her again one day, perhaps when we were old, so that we could share the stories of our lives while sitting around getting fat on sweets.” She smiled at her husband. “A grandchild,” she said. “My sister has a grandchild. A boy, born through the line of her own blood. And what has happened to him? He has been thrown away like rubbish! Don’t you see? He is alone somewhere, waiting for someone to claim him. Perhaps he has already been given away, a child, connected to me by blood. Connected to us. So now I ask you, husband, what do you think we should do?”

  Mrs. Gupta thought of all this as she watched her sister’s son, sitting on the floor beside her, fighting his fatigue. And now she asked the same question of herself, what should we do? wishing her husband were there to answer her. It was not in her nature to hold back, but now was not the time. He needed to rest, to regain his strength and replace some of the flesh that had fallen from his bones.

  “I will leave you to sleep now.” She got up from the floor, adjusting her sari over her shoulder. “I cannot believe that you are here. It is a miracle.”

  • • •

  Jag did not wake until noon the following day, and when he did, he was so tired that he managed only to eat a little, to drink some water, before his body waned and he fell asleep again. The women left him in peace, keeping to the other room, slipping past quietly whenever they went downstairs to wash or prepare food.

  Mrs. Gupta watched Jag sleeping. He seemed so peaceful, untroubled by his dreams, and she studied his face closely, the marked resemblance to her sister. His mouth twitched, just slightly, and for a moment it looked as though he were smiling.

  Jag had heard her come into the room, the sounds of the day drifting into his half-sleep, unable to rouse himself. He had not slept like this since forever, always on his guard, ready to spring up and defend, or flee, or respond to whatever threat might creep up on him while he lay down. Sometimes he would wake with a start, realizing that he had fallen fast asleep, and he would check everything around him quickly, feeling angry with himself for slipping off like that, and then he would force himself awake, shifting to a less comfortable position to reduce the temptation to drift into full sleep. He and Navinder had taken turns keeping watch, but still, one of their bundles of belongings had been stolen in the night, lifted and carried away from right under their noses.

  Jag knew his aunt was close by, the scent of her, cinnamon and cloves, all around. He felt himself slide into sleep again, and thought of Sophie. If only he
had not lost sight of her father. He should have said something to him. He should have introduced himself and said that he knew him from the palace. But then Dr. Schofield would have known. He would have put two and two together and realized that he was the boy that his daughter had been seeing secretly. And if he had said something, what did he expect to happen? Did he think the doctor would have greeted the news well? No. It would have been a mistake. He might even have turned on him and given him a thrashing.

  He thought of Sophie and wondered where she was. Back in England, no doubt. Who in their right mind would have stayed? Dr. Schofield would have sent them home ahead of him. The British always did that when trouble loomed, sending their families away, cities and towns emptied of women and children. He had sent them to the safety of the countryside during the war Sophie had described to him, the bombs and the great fires that had swept through the cities, the ancient buildings engulfed in flames, towering walls collapsing into the street as though made of cardboard. She had told him of the village and of how different it was from villages in India, of a cottage called Ranmore, and how the church bells rang out and the way they sounded, calling the villagers to prayer. He knew everything about it.

  A small breeze passed over him and he began to dream, imagining himself crossing the black water, flying over it like a bird, the vast sea meeting the earth, and him soaring, soaring, over England’s green and pleasant land. On he flew, across the cities and out into the countryside, looking down over the hills and fields until he saw a church, bells pealing into the sky, and swooped down, circling, circling over the cottage. She was sitting in a chair, like the ones in the orange garden, and she was wearing a dress in the palace blue, like the tiles in the blue fountain. Down he went, diving through the thin air, landing near to her. I have found you, he said, but he was a bird and his words came out as a song, high and sweet, and she looked at him and smiled. It is me! he sang, a pretty ditty that went chirrup chirrup, and she watched him for a while. It is me! It is me! he said, hopping around as though the grass was burning his feet, but she was looking away now, far off into the distance. He sang to her again but she did not notice him. Instead, she got up and went inside.

  • • •

  “Jagaan.” Jag opened his eyes, his aunt’s face peering down at him. “Jagaan. It is morning again.”

  He sat up a little, propping his weight on his elbows. How many mornings? Two, he thought. He had counted two. Or perhaps he had been dreaming. He pulled himself up, his muscles heavy, and stood as though trying his legs, testing his balance. He flexed his shoulders, joints and sinews cracking, and loosened his neck.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Jag said, nodding to himself. “Much better. I am sorry I have slept so long.”

  “It is good for you. You needed it. You will eat something now?”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Geeta is making dosas with curried vegetables.” She came to him and arranged his twisted shirt. “She makes the best dosas you have ever tasted. Thin and golden and crisp, and so light.” Jag smiled. “Komal made the vegetables. They are not as good as mine, but we will pretend.”

  Jag laughed, his aunt slapping his hand playfully, telling him to shush. She laughed along with him for a while, then her face darkened. She took his hand between her palms, looking at it, stroking the back of it gently as she breathed softly to herself.

  Jag didn’t want her to cry. He had seen too much crying during those terrible bleak months when he had felt so alone, and the sound of it had been one of the hardest things to bear. His aunt put his hand to her lips. She kissed it and returned it to him. Only then did she look up.

  “Jagaan,” she said.

  “Yes, Aunty?”

  “We will sit together this morning, just you and I.”

  “Yes, Aunty. I would like that.”

  “And we shall talk of all the things we have to talk about. You must have many questions to ask me.”

  Jag looked at her. He had no questions. His mind was a blank, like it had been washed clean, as though the sleep had taken every thought in him and carried it away. His aunt noticed his vacant expression, a tiny shift in his eyes, almost imperceptible. Those eyes, she thought. They were unlike any that she had ever seen: deep green, like jewels.

  • • •

  Geeta and Komal served Jag’s breakfast in silence, then slipped away to the kitchen where they could be heard faintly, talking softly, moving pots, sluicing water, pounding grains in the quern.

  “This is the best food I have ever tasted,” Jag said.

  “We are very lucky,” his aunt told him. “We are mostly traders in Kim Street. Deepak brings us vegetables and will never accept any payment. Your uncle makes shoes for him, for his family, and he never takes payment either. We look after each other, all the trade families. It is the way it has always been, but many have left now. Who knows who will come and take their places?”

  “Where is my uncle?”

  “I will come to that. You do not need to worry about him. He is safe.”

  “Perhaps Navinder will become a tailor,” Jag said.

  “That would suit Deepak very well indeed. He is worried that now he will have to start paying for his shirts. He is a generous man with his vegetables, but not so generous in matters of money.”

  “You can’t eat money,” Jag said. “That is one of the things that I have learned. What use is money when there is no food to buy? His vegetables are far more valuable.”

  “It is a good lesson,” his aunt said. “Your mother always swore that when she had a son, he would be properly educated. He would learn to read the great books and become a great man.”

  “Yes,” Jag said. “My father talked about her often.”

  “And did her wish come true?”

  “Partly,” Jag said. “I was educated, as she wanted, but only time will tell if I live to honor her as she deserves.”

  “So you can read the English?”

  “Yes.” Jag smiled, a little proud of himself. “I can read the English.”

  His aunt nodded in a small way. “Have you finished your breakfast?” His plate was empty, the thin platter wiped clean. She took it from him and went downstairs.

  Jag flexed his back, sitting upright, hands on his folded knees, and belched. He was awake now, fully awake for the first time in days. It was a relief, to be out of that weary, transcended state. He would go out today maybe, ask his aunt about it first, but he needed to be outside, to feel something other than the cocoon of these four walls. Perhaps he had spent too long out in the open, living in it, sleeping under the sky. He would have to get used to being indoors again, to adjust to a new life, and he wondered if a day would come when all this felt like normality.

  Mrs. Gupta returned from the kitchen, entering the room as though it were a tomb. Jag stood up at once, the veil of worry across his aunt’s face sinking his stomach. She was holding something in her hands, an envelope, already open, her fingers turning it over.

  “Jagaan,” she said. “There is something I have to tell you about. But first, I want you to sit down.”

  He did as he was told, and his aunt sat near to him, straight-backed, the usually soft line of her figure unnaturally stiff. Jag settled himself as best he could, his eyes shifting constantly to her hand.

  “Jagaan. A letter came for you a month ago,” she said. “We didn’t understand what it was or why it had been sent here. We didn’t know where you were. We never expected to see you.” She dropped her face in shame. “Your uncle opened it.” She held it out to him. “I am sorry.” Her head remained bowed as she felt the envelope taken from her.

  Jag looked down and saw his name, the shape it formed when written in English. He did not recognize the writing. Lifting the flap, he opened the envelope, then stopped, mystified. Inside was a scrap of paper, folded small, like the
notes he had once pressed into the gaps in the stone slabs beneath the huge marble urns in the Moghul gardens. His fingers reached in for it, tissue thin, tiny flecks of gold at its edges, and he saw his name again, the address of his aunt’s house, the handwriting different from the envelope—different, and unmistakable. His heart caught in his chest. Sophie. She had remembered, and she had written to him. He felt overjoyed, swallowing hard, his hands trembling. He wanted to leap into the air and yell at the top of his voice. He wanted to crouch in a corner, curl into a ball, and weep, because he had missed her so badly. Carefully he unfolded the delicate paper, fearing that it might disintegrate if he even breathed too hard.

  The state of her writing threw him into confusion, her hand unsteady, the once elegant curve of her tails scratched sharply into the paper, the dots and crosses fast and untidy.

  My darling Jag,

  You have a son. He was born on 23 May 1948 in St. Bride’s mission in Cuttack, Orissa. They made me give him up. I don’t know what to do except to send this. We have a son. Find him.

  Sophie

  Nothing moved. Not the air in the room or the dust motes that hung there. Not the sun in the sky or the earth below it. Jag felt his blood lie still, his heart stop beating, his skin shrink from his flesh, his whole being sucked from the room into a vast vacuum of stillness. His mouth went dry, his throat filled with stones. He began to shake, uncontrollably, as though thrown into a tub of ice water. His aunt put her arms around him, holding him tightly, feeling him rigid beneath his shirt, his rapid swallows, his juddering breaths.

  “Be still,” she whispered to him. “You have nothing to be afraid of.”

  Jag felt his head splitting open. The room began to sway. He pulled in deep breaths, hard and fast. You have a son. He wrenched himself away from his aunt, standing up, flailing, two clay oil lamps knocked to the floor. His hands clasped his head, bending, straightening, striding to the window, his breathing suddenly heavy. He turned from the window and bent down, doubled over as though in pain, his face contorted, hand pressed to his mouth now, perhaps to stop himself screaming.