by Amita Trasi
On occasion, I followed up with the private detective as well, but whenever I entered the shabby office, the secretary would shuffle piles of paper on her desk, refusing to answer any of the phones that rang off the hook. Some days she wouldn’t even lift her head to look at me. Then one day, when I could take it no longer, I shouted at her, “What is the point in telling me you will let me know if you aren’t doing anything about it?”
“What can I do?” she asked, looking at me meekly, startled at my outburst. I left her there with her papers and her pile of files and told her I would never come back. And I didn’t. I learned months later that the detective had finagled my father out of a good sum of money without having done anything on the case. Perhaps avoiding me was his best chance of keeping the money. In any case, it wasn’t something I was willing to probe. My focus was on finding Mukta, but days went by with no help forthcoming from any quarters.
On hopeless days filled with dismay and darkness, I was reminded of the days after Aai’s thirteenth day ritual. It had taken days for the mourning, like a long death wail, to settle around us. Suddenly all we were left with was silence, and I had been surprised to see it creep into our lives so easily. After the ceremony, Meena-ji no longer knocked on our door to collect money from Papa for the ritual; there were no servants gathering in our apartment, cleaning the house, painting it with their banter, nobody dropping off items for the ceremony. Aai’s death had pierced our hearts days ago, but it was only now that we were becoming aware of the void it had left in us.
Every morning I woke up startled by the unaccustomed shrill ring of the alarm clock, expecting Aai’s hands to shake me from my reverie, hoping to hear Aai’s voice telling me to hurry up and get ready for school. When I got up I raced to the kitchen, expecting to see Aai there, standing next to Mukta, telling her how to knead the chapati dough or how much milk should go in the coffee. It was strange how I did this day after day, despite her absence.
At the breakfast table, Mukta painstakingly prepared food and set it on the table. The parathas in the left hand corner, the bowl of curd in the middle, the coffee served in our mugs just the way we liked it. It was the way Aai had taught her, the way Aai had always been particular about. Without realizing it, I was beginning to accumulate memories of my time with my Aai, which I had taken for granted all those years.
These days Papa, too, had become very subdued. He would have a small bite of breakfast in the morning or ignore it completely, gulping down only a cup of coffee. Having taken time off from work, he slept most of the day, waking up only to nibble on an apple or gulp down a glass of milk. On odd occasions, he would wearily ask me if I had eaten something or how I was doing, then without waiting for my response, he would turn around and walk toward his room. On the first few occasions, I had sincerely replied, only to see him shut the door behind him. Very soon I learned not to respond, and he learned not to ask. He would shut the door loudly—that slamming noise the only thing that pierced the silence in our home. This became my only means of communication with my Papa.
One late afternoon, Anupam chacha came home. I was sitting on the balcony aimlessly, with my head on the railing, watching pedestrians walk on the street.
“Where is your Papa?” he asked.
I lifted my head, pointed to Papa’s room, and followed him as he woke Papa and threw open the curtains. The sunlight poured through the windows and slanted across his face as he sat up straight, squinted at me, and began to look around him. “Close the curtain. The sun—”
“Let’s go outside, get some fresh air. Moping will not help. You have a daughter to take care of.”
Anupam chacha helped Papa out of bed, and they walked outside. They sat on the balcony in their usual chairs, but there was nothing usual about this scene. I watched from the living room, wishing, hoping that life could be more like a video tape. Then I could have rewound it and relived some moments of my life.
“Maybe I should return to work. It will keep me occupied,” Papa said, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Anupam chacha patted him on the back and poured him a beer. The drink sat there with them; it bubbled and foamed up but didn’t spill out.
I hadn’t been to school in two weeks, and Papa admonished me during dinner that night. “You should go to school. I will talk to the principal tomorrow. The teachers will help you with the schoolwork you missed,” he said, picking at his food.
For the rest of the meal, we didn’t say anything but listened to the scraping of utensils as Mukta served food to us. It was times like these I wished he would say it would be all right, that he would take care of everything and, whatever had happened, we would somehow survive. But this was the moment—right here, sitting at the dinner table—when I should have realized we had left behind those days when he would talk to me, teach me the workings of the world, when I would sit by him while he narrated stories or read poems to me.
Some days Mukta would come up to me and say, “Would you like to come to the terrace? You might feel better.”
“No. I’m fine,” I would answer, withdrawing to my room to avoid her.
When she would ask me if I needed something from the bazaar, I would pretend to read one of Papa’s books, refuse to look up, shake my head, and then watch her leave. When I resumed school, I grabbed my school bag and set out earlier than the scheduled time so she wouldn’t have a chance to accompany me. On the third day of this, she peered from behind the door to my room, twirling the edges of her dress. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, looking concerned.
“No,” I said, setting aside the book and walking past her out of the door.
It didn’t help that my teachers at school who knew I had lost my mother looked at me with pity in their eyes, their hands patting me occasionally on my back, trying to give me comfort. The more I listened to them, the more aware I became of a sinking feeling in my chest. I didn’t exactly know what it was, but if there was one thing I did know, it was that regret was slowly burning a hole in my heart—regret at not being able to change one minute on that unfortunate day.
For days after Mukta told me she had feigned illness and refused to run the errand, the thought raced through my head that if Mukta hadn’t refused to go to the bazaar, my Aai would be alive. The more I thought about this, the more I began to understand what Meena-ji was referring to—that Mukta was the bad omen in our lives. Even if Papa didn’t believe it, I could not refute the possibility that Mukta was the one responsible for Aai’s death. After that, whenever I looked at her, it reminded me of her betrayal, her audacity to make a decision without consulting me. After all, she was a village kid and did not belong in our family. What a huge price I was paying for it!
By the end of the month, I could take it no more. I decided I had to do something about it. I mentioned it to Navin. We were sitting on a bench in the courtyard of our apartment complex. The place was barely lit, and we often sat there in the dark.
“I wish someone would take her away. I cannot bear looking at her knowing she is the reason Aai is dead. If only I could find a way.”
“Don’t say that Tara.”
“Well, what do you want me to say? It is the truth. I think . . . I think I should go find someone to take her back to the village. She will be happy there, and she will leave me in peace.” I could feel the warmth of my anger on my cheeks. There was a look of surprise on Navin’s face. He didn’t have to say it. I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t think I was capable of such a thought. That should have been enough to stop me, but now everything had changed.
The next evening I overheard some women gossiping in our courtyard. “I am looking for a good electrician to rewire my apartment and what do I get? Nobody is willing to do it unless I give them good money. Gone are those days when people would charge reasonable prices for their services,” said Meena-ji, slapping her forehead.
“Arre, everybody is a thug now-a-days. All they want is money. Even if we pay them, nobody gets the work completed prope
rly and on time. How different are they from the street-side goondas?”
I left them and their agitation behind as I walked home, but it sparked an idea in me. In that insane moment I knew exactly who to contact—the street-side thugs who would do anything for money. I thought about this for a while, thought if I could hand over some of the pocket money I had accumulated over the years, they would probably take her back where she belonged. What I wanted more than anything else was for somebody to take Mukta away from me, from Papa. The only street-side thugs I knew were Raza and Salim, and they always loitered at the corner of an alleyway a distance from Station Road. I had seen them there many times as Papa and I had driven past in a taxi. Salim might not be willing to help me, but he would do the job if I gave him money, especially if I told him it was about helping a lower caste girl, someone who belonged to the same class he belonged to. I’d lie and tell him Mukta wanted to return home to her village. Hadn’t he said he could never hurt a poor village child? The thought kept blooming in my heart, growing into a full-fledged plan, though even then it seemed like a fantasy I was building in my head. I quickly dismissed the idea and told myself these were the same boys Mukta had once saved me from, and I must feel grateful to her instead. By next morning, I was chiding myself for thinking about something so evil. But sometimes it seems a sense of gratitude is quickly overpowered by anger, and one can’t see clearly.
It was a Wednesday, I remember. That afternoon Mukta walked with me to school.
“It is going to be all right,” she said, her words soft and kind as she handed me my school bag. Those words gave new life to my thoughts. I remember her bright eyes and hopeful expression wanting to put an end to my misery, instead fueling my disgust for her.
I decided quickly. I left her standing near the flaming red flowers on the gulmohar tree outside my school and walked toward the backyard of the school campus. I don’t know what I was thinking when I climbed over the wall and jumped into an alleyway that lined the school. People walking in that alleyway gave me shocked stares and murmured to each other, one of them yelling behind me, asking me if I was in some kind of trouble. I ignored them and kept walking. I thought of the teachers who would look for me in class and wondered if Mukta would run home and squeal to Papa, telling him I had run away. But the fear Papa would have didn’t stop me. There was only one thing on my mind.
I walked from one alley to another, passing food carts and harried mothers talking to their children, cars parked on the side, and children playing marbles in the middle of the street, until I saw them standing there—Salim and his buddies—laughing loudly, chatting on the corner of a street. They were just where I had hoped they would be. Behind them a garbage can overflowed onto the streets, but they seemed unhindered by the smell. I stood at the intersection between two streets, watching them for a while. The wall behind me had graffiti—a girl with tears in her eyes and matted hair who looked at me longingly. Above her was a caption Help the girl child.
I hurriedly brought out a notebook from my schoolbag, kneeled on the street—not bothered by the gravel that scraped my knees—and tore off an empty page. I wrote hurriedly whatever came to my mind, cursing myself for not thinking of this sooner, then folded the page and put it into an envelope with two hundred rupees. I stood there, my uniform soaking in sweat, my eyes darting toward Salim’s gang from time to time, wondering how I could get the note across to Salim.
I waited a long time, listening to their raucous laughter, watching people carrying heavy bags of groceries and trucks unloading their wares to shops on that street. Afternoon turned into evening, and I could see people returning home from work and the traffic waning. The pocket money I had saved for years lay there in my school bag glaring at me, mocking me. For a moment I thought of the things we would be doing at this time had I been home. I thought of the chai Mukta would prepare for Papa and imagined Papa sipping it. It would have been an ordinary evening if I had not slipped away from school.
If the beggar boy hadn’t approached me, I would have made my way back home. But he stood before me, his bare feet soiled, his clothes tattered, his face showing streaks of tears. I took one look at his face and knew this was my chance. I dipped into my school bag and offered him fifty rupees. He stared at the note in his hand, stroked it with his other hand, and then looked back at me with astonishment.
“You can take the money if you take this envelope to that man standing there.” I pointed to Salim down the street. The boy took the envelope from my hands and hurried down the street. I watched from a comfortable distance so that if Salim came after me I could run away quickly and join a crowd on a street where it would be difficult for him to cause me any harm.
The beggar boy tugged at Salim’s sleeve, handed him the envelope, pointed to me, ran down the street, and disappeared. Salim looked at the envelope, then at me, and opened it. He unfolded the note and the money fell to the ground, but even then, the brutality of what I was doing didn’t occur to me. My note had three lines; I couldn’t think of anything else in that moment: Take the girl who lives with us away to her village. Her life will be better there, away from us. I am willing to pay you more than this if necessary.
Salim burst out into laughter and read the note aloud to his friends who laughed too. He bent down, picked up the money and put it into his back pocket, then started walking toward me, hollering, “I don’t follow the command of little girls.”
He crumpled the note into a ball and threw it away. It rolled toward the side of the street and plopped into the gutter. I turned and ran as fast as I could, wiping away my tears with the sleeve of my uniform. Everything around me blurred as I ran.
Papa was pacing nervously outside our apartment when I reached home.
“Where were you?” he shouted. “I called the school and was about to call the police. Isn’t it enough that I lose your mother, now you give me trouble too?”
My heart was pounding; my breath was warm against my skin. He didn’t wait for me to respond but went back to his bedroom and shut the door loudly behind him. He didn’t come out for dinner that night.
“Are you all right?” Mukta asked.
I must have looked disheveled. I had fallen twice while running home and bruised my knees badly, but I didn’t reply. She brought me a glass of water and wiped my wounds with an antiseptic. She also brought me dinner that night and sat beside me on my bed.
“I know you think it is my fault, but I didn’t mean to let Memsahib go by herself. I misunderstood when you said you wanted to talk. I thought you had asked me to make an excuse. I didn’t mean to do anything without your permission.”
Anger rose in my throat, but I let it go down with my dinner. I didn’t want to extend her the courtesy of acknowledging her presence.
After she had switched off the lights, I lay awake in bed, the scene of Salim crumpling the paper and throwing it away playing in my mind. It was my last hope, and it hadn’t worked. Then Mukta came to my room.
“I will sleep here, just in case.” She spread a sheet on the floor. Before this, I had often relished the thought of Mukta sleeping beside my bed on the floor. She loved the thought of abandoning her dingy room, while I loved having her with me at night. Of course, Aai hadn’t been very fond of the idea and had admonished me, which had never dissuaded me.
Now, I thought of Aai—how badly she must have wanted me to listen to her. Today she would have been proud of me because I didn’t want Mukta anywhere near me. I grumbled. I told Mukta she wasn’t welcome in my room anymore. I shifted in my bed and turned my back toward her. She ignored me, crawling into a sleeping position on the floor. She might have thought I needed her, but it irritated me that she had ignored what I said—once again. I jumped out of bed, stood by the door, switched on the lights, and stared at her.
“I said I don’t want you here anymore.”
She patted the ground next to her, hoping I’d sit and share my heartache. The annoyance bubbling inside me came spilling out, “I hope
the devil comes for you tonight, walks in right through that door.” I pointed to the main door, walked up to it, and unlocked it. “I wish I never had to see you again. I wish you would burn in hell.” I switched off the lights, jumped into my bed, and drew the blanket over me.
The words floated around us, trying to shrink the bond we shared. In the slant of the dim streetlight, she sat there watching me, despair engulfing her face, but I didn’t regret what I had said, not on that night.
Mukta didn’t leave in spite of my outburst. I remember feeling safe having her close by. In retrospect, I should have realized how much I needed her in my grief. But back then I was busy thinking of ways to get rid of her.
Something woke me up that night—I don’t remember what. Was it the sudden whoosh of the wind through the window or the swishing of curtains? I hadn’t opened my eyes, but I had already smelled the whiff of danger in the air. It was a sour smell, the smell of alcohol. I thought I was having a dream about Papa and Anupam chacha sitting on the balcony, laughing, drinking whisky in the happier days. But when my eyes opened, I could see him, the man who dawdled around my bed, reeking of alcohol. The streetlight was barely letting light in, but I could see Mukta sitting upright on the floor, her back against a cupboard, staring at him in horror. His shadow sauntering through the room looked deadly and sent a shiver through me. I could see a masked face with eyes scanning my room. It is a bad dream. He kneeled down on the floor beside Mukta, blotted a tape across her mouth, and tied her hands behind her. Wake up.
