The Color of our Sky: A novel set in India

by Amita Trasi

  “So how did you know to come looking for me?” I asked.

  “Papa had been looking for you. I found some documents in his drawer.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed and looked out the window. “I will tell you someday. I wish we—Papa and I—could have done things differently.”

  “Why? Whatever both of you did for me was more than anybody has ever done.”

  She looked at me closely, cautiously, then let out a deep sigh. “There are many things I want to tell you, but not now. We’ll leave that for later. Maybe you should get some rest now.”

  She didn’t insist on knowing anything about my life, perhaps sensing that my memories were too bitter to recollect, but I told her about Sanjiv, about Sylvie who had been there for me, of Asha’s birth, of all those better memories that cover the bitter ones.

  “Do you remember?” she asked, “we used to tell each other that we would always be together, even if I married and went away.”

  “Yes, and by now you should have had at least two children,” I said, and she giggled. Her laughter surrounded us, and I hoped this time, it had come to stay.

  I wanted to believe this world that I had returned to would never come to an end.

  I had only two weeks’ experience of this new life when the phone rang. I was dusting the books in the library and flipping the pages of a book. Tara entered the library.

  “Remember the hospital where we had your medical checkup? The doctor wants to talk to us about some reports,” she said.

  She didn’t talk much on the way to the hospital. In the taxi, she kept clenching and unclenching her fists, smiling at me nervously. I wanted to tell her about my diagnosis—that I had the disease that ravaged my mother, but I simply couldn’t let her crumble at the news. I accompanied her to the hospital, keeping my diagnosis tightly tied up in my heart. At the hospital we sat down on the bench outside the doctor’s office, and I told Tara that I could not believe my luck. What had I done to deserve this? To be able to live a new life? That’s when the doctor came out, took Tara aside, and said something to her. Her face turned as grim as the sky gathering clouds during a storm. She sadly rested her back on the wall as if her body had become too heavy for her.

  The doctor called me inside his office and asked me to sit down.

  “Have you had recurring fever, don’t feel hungry anymore?” the doctor asked from the chair next to mine.

  “I have fever some days and don’t like to eat, yes. They . . . they’ve told me about the disease,” I told the doctor but looked at Tara.

  “You know you have HIV?” the doctor asks.

  I nod. “A doctor at the hospital told me a few years ago. At first Sylvie got me the medicine, then she died. They moved me to Sonagachi a few months ago, and nobody would buy me the medicine. I didn’t tell anyone—not even that woman from the NGO who used to come to check up on us. I thought I’d get better by myself. I was even feeling better.”

  “Not taking the medicines for a few months is not good. Your HIV has advanced to late stage,” he said, looking into my eyes, a pall of pity surrounding his words.

  “What does that mean?” I looked at Tara who is kneeling by my side.

  It didn’t take a long time for the doctor to explain what it meant. He gave me a prescription for medicines and a handout about how I was supposed to take care of myself. Both Tara and I left the hospital silently, trying to wish the news away by the sheer stubbornness of our silence.

  The warm summer winds have long blown by. Now, only the cold rain assaults, reminding us that life moves on without waiting for anyone.

  –MUKTA

  Thirty-one

  Three months passed after the doctor gave us the news. Persistent headaches and coughs have troubled me, causing Tara to rush to my side at night. Each time I sent her back to her bed, reassuring her I was okay. Both of us knew it wouldn’t stay like this for long. It would only get worse, but we didn’t put it in words.

  Sometimes I woke up after midnight to find myself looking at Asha fast asleep beside me. I ran my fingers through her hair and traced my finger down her nose and her eyes, hoping memory of touch was something carried beyond life. I wanted so much to see her grow up, go to school, get a respectable job, marry, and have children. I wanted to sit in her wedding pandal and shower her with good luck rice. The one good thing was that we got Asha tested. I was relieved I hadn’t passed my disease to her. When I thought about this, certain stillness surrounded me and my spirit soared, assuring me she will be all right.

  “We should go to this doctor,” Tara said, trying to show me another brochure she had brought along, “This doctor—he is very well known and is—”

  “No more doctors please,” I told her. She looked at me surprised.

  “In the last three months we have been to too many doctors. We have waited in doctor’s offices only to hear the same thing the first doctor told us. It’s time we accepted what is happening, that I . . . ”

  She flung the brochure in the air and stomped out of the house like a little child. My words evaporated mid-air. All day I waited for her to come back home, but she didn’t return until late night. I noticed her only when I was making her bed—standing by the door of her bedroom. I continued pressing out the creases from the bedspread with my hand and waited for her to say something.

  “You don’t have to do that anymore. How many times have I told you? You don’t have to do all the chores like you used to. You cook and clean, go shopping for vegetables. It’s not good for your health.” She folded her arms on her chest.

  “No, no. I have to.” I smiled at her. “No matter what you say Tara, I didn’t come from a good home, and I certainly didn’t deserve a place like this. But your Papa brought me to this home. This is the least I can do.” I stood straight and faced her, folding the blanket as I spoke.

  She looked at me gravely and seemed to debate whether or not to say something. “There is something I have to tell you.”

  I watched her as she spoke.

  “Papa. He came from the same village as you did. I went there recently—turns out . . . ”

  The look in her eyes scared me.

  “Turns out that he was the zamindar’s son.”

  My lips trembled. A memory of that evening came jostling to me: the evening when Amma and I had waited under that banyan tree . . . of the morning when I had run after my father as his car had sped away.

  “Well, I might as well say it,” she said, tightening her arms against her chest. “He . . . he had a relationship with your mother. There is a chance that . . . that . . . ” she paused, swallowed, and continued, “you are my half-sister.” Her voice croaked feebly.

  I closed my eyes and felt the heat of the words in my throat, my palms moistened, and I clutched the blanket closer to me. For a moment, everything around me seemed to have gone silent. I heard nothing, not even my thoughts, just the sound of my uneven breath running through my heart. Her eyes were still on me, looking at me nervously, as if I could crumble to pieces if she looked away.

  Are you . . . are you sure?” I asked her. The words came out carefully, as though afraid of themselves.

  She shrugged slightly and held my gaze. Guilt and helplessness overtook her face. “Papa was sure. Even Aai was sure . . . but I don’t know. We can find out—there are DNA tests—if you want to know for sure but—”

  “But?”

  “But does it matter? You are my sister. You’ve always been.”

  I looked into her eyes then lowered my gaze, let the blanket drop to the floor, walked past her, and sat in the storage room. Thoughts ran amuck in my head. The night was serene and the sky seemed to want to comfort me. But even they failed me on this night. My Amma’s hopeful face floated around me. How many years had she waited for him? I remember that walk in the village where I had hoped my father would come and silence all those people in the village who had berated us. Maybe Sahib was my father. Why else would he have taken a girl like me from t
he village to this city? Why else would he have been so kind to me? I imagined his face in all those memories where my father’s face had been a thick hazy fog. And I saw distinctly the man—Tara’s Papa—as he had hesitated by the car that morning and looked behind briefly at me, seeming sorry to leave me behind. I was unsure if this was my mere imagination or a true memory. The questions that had been resting for such a long time came bursting out. Could he have given me a different life, a better life? If he had accepted me I would have been able to go to school, read, and write like all those children who attended school. Would I have found love? I would have certainly lived a little longer to see my child grow up and study in school. The thoughts teemed in my head. The pain, the anger, rolled down my cheeks. I drew my legs close and let my body fall to the floor. There was so much I had hoped for in this life, I thought as sleep drew its veil over me.

  My eyes opened to the warmth of the morning sun. I saw Tara stretched beside me, still deep in sleep. I watched the beams of sun push through the window, and I wondered about the way the night enveloped the day, holding it in its womb of darkness. Perhaps this anguish inside me wasn’t helping me see clearly. I watched her as she opened her eyes, stretched beside me, and looked at me carefully, as if waiting for my decision.

  “All my life, I have waited . . . waited to be told I was so-and-so’s daughter so I could experience that shower of love a daughter basks in. But in reality your father, Sahib, did more for me than anybody ever has, he saved me from that village, gave me a childhood with you—one I would have never had otherwise. He spent his time looking for me after I was kidnapped.”

  I took a breath. She sat up and looked at me earnestly,

  “I want to remember him as my father whether it is the truth or not. I want to remember the good moments, just the way they happened, not analyze it with some DNA test.”

  She drew me into her arms, and I held her tight.

  “I don’t have long,” I whisper in her ear. This was the first time I said it aloud.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “The last doctor told us there was a chance—”

  “I don’t have long,” I said firmly, “so . . . so will you take me somewhere one last time?”

  Her lips trembled. “Where? Ganipur?”

  For a while I felt transported back to the village I was born in—Ganipur, to that house where the roof leaked, where I spun hope into stories about my father. I smiled at this.

  “What? Why are you smiling?” Tara asked, scrutinizing my face.

  “Nothing. I thought of my village. “

  “So where do you want to go?”

  “Amma used to say that when my father returned to us, she wanted to go to Varanasi to have a dip in the Ganga River and wash away her sins. Maybe it will wash away all my sins.”

  “You haven’t committed any sins, Mukta. Nothing that happened was your fault.”

  “Please,” I whispered, “I want to go. My father has returned to me now, hasn’t he?”

  She swallowed hard and continued nodding.

  Raza made the arrangements for us to leave and came to the railway station to hand us our tickets. I had only heard about him from Tara. She always spoke highly of him, even though he had threatened us when we were children. But I clearly saw the reason for her fondness.

  “Wait here,” Tara told me. She left the suitcases by my side and walked the platform towards him.

  “Where is she going?” Asha asked, standing beside me with a concerned look on her face.

  “She will be back,” I assured her.

  I watched Raza smile at Tara as he neared her and whispered something to her. Tara said something back to him and returned his smile. Their eyes spoke to each other as his fingertips touched hers. This closeness they shared was something I had always wanted for her. But a more surprising moment for me was when Asha’s face lit up at the sight of Raza. She ran towards him and he picked her up in his arms and asked her if she liked the gift he brought her last time, like a father would ask his child.

  “They’ve grown really close,” Tara told me as she walked towards me.

  I was still staring at both of them—a reflection of what I had always wanted for myself. He smiled at me and nodded his head but didn’t say anything. His eyes were on Tara.

  “Well, you be a good girl,” Tara told Asha. “We will be back soon.”

  We boarded the train, my eyes still on Asha. She waved to me as the train sped by, and I wondered if it was a good idea to leave Asha behind. She was going to stay with Navin for a few days to play with Rohan, and Tara had assured me Raza would check in on her every now and then. Asha was worried I’d leave her again, but in the end, she had agreed to stay at Navin’s place.

  “Don’t worry, she will be fine. Raza will be there for her,” Tara told me from across the seat, reading my mind. I smiled at the way her eyes lit up at the mention of his name.

  “You like him,” I said mischievously.

  She looked up in disbelief, a tinge of pink appearing on her nose and cheeks. She shrugged and waved it away.

  “How come you didn’t mention it before?” I pestered.

  She sighed, but the expression on her face was pleasant.

  “He asked me to marry him. I haven’t given him a reply.”

  “Why not? What’s stopping you? You better let him know how you feel otherwise he might think you are going back to Amreeka,” I teased.

  She frowned. “Are you worried about that too?” she asked.

  She raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

  “Will you go back to Amreeka leaving Asha behind?” I asked after a pause.

  “No. I want to work with Dinesh and Saira. I want to be there for the girls at the center. But more than that, I want to be there for Asha. I will look after her, I promise. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  I was too overwhelmed to reply. She sat beside me and put her arms around me. We were silent for a while, watching the fog settle outside and lift with the warmth of the wind.

  “And will you . . . ” I asked, breaking the silence.

  “Will you what?”

  “Will you marry him?”

  She sat up and laughed.

  “Of course, eventually,” she said softly as the train zoomed through the ghats.

  Varanasi. The railway platform was full of people—pilgrims and devotees—who had come to visit this holy place, to find salvation with one dip in the Ganges. The cycle rickshaw zigzagged through the labyrinth of crowded lanes, constantly honking at pedestrians. The street was noisy, eager devotees tried to buy flowers and puja items from shops that lined the streets, cows and goats rummaged in rubbish while the sounds of temple bells resounded in the background. After a while, the streets narrowed; we disembarked from the rickshaw and walked down the street, trying to avoid the overflowing gutters, cow dung, and sleeping dogs.

  “Oh boy,” Tara said, covering her nose with a handkerchief, “the road to finding God is tough!” She laughed in her handkerchief as she said this, but I didn’t find it funny at all.

  “It’s the grief,” I said.

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s the pain people come with, the pain they wash off in this holy place. It rises like water evaporating into steam. It’s grief, that’s what it smells like to me, the heaviness of it lingers in the air.”

  She looked at me and put her arm around my shoulder. “You haven’t changed have you?”

  “That’s all I have ever had—the ability to see the beauty in small things, in people, in nature. It’s the only thing that has helped me survive. Is that so bad?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not at all.”

  It was almost evening by the time we freshened up at the hotel and walked towards the ghats. There were people bathing in the water, shaving, washing clothes at the bank of this holy river as we took a boat ride to the ghats. We climbed the stairs, settled on the steps, and watched the domes of the temples nearby. Diyas set in marigolds glit
tered on the surface of the river.

  “There is something I must confess . . . something I did . . . long ago,” Tara said.

  I waited for her to say something more.

  “I thought there would be plenty of time to tell you this but . . . ” She paused.

  “If it’s difficult, you don’t have to say it,” I said. “Why would I try to understand things anymore? I have so little time left.”

  “No, I have to . . . ” She swallowed hard and looked into the distance at the horizon. “This, all this . . . it’s my fault. I-I wanted you out of the way. When Aai died, I wasn’t thinking straight; I-I wasn’t thinking at all. I went to Salim . . . asked him to take you away. Will you ever be able to forgive me?” She looked away, trying to hide her tears.

  I sighed. By now, I was sure my destiny couldn’t have been anyone’s doing.

  “Was he the one who kidnapped me then?” I asked.

  “No, no . . . it was—”

  “I don’t want to know. I want to forget, Tara,” I said. “What I am trying to say is, if it wasn’t the person you thought it was, then how are you to blame? Why do you need forgiveness? It was just my past catching up with me. I was born in a place like that; I had to return to it. All I remember is you holding my hand when I needed it, taking me into that world of stories I had never heard before, and pulling me into your childhood. If anything, you helped me out of it all, gave me a new lease of life, a childhood to remember. Most girls like me—born where they are—don’t get that, and I am grateful to you for that. I am.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself. I don’t think I will ever live it down. Your life would have been so different.”

  “There are a number of times my life could have been different,” I said, digging into my memories. “There are a number of people who could have made it different, but you were the only one who came for me. Generations of women before me were prostitutes, and if you hadn’t interfered, stopped the cycle—saved my Asha’s life—she would have become just like me. And all those girls, those women you help at the center, don’t you see? You are doing a lot of good. So I don’t want you to be hard on yourself—that is the last thing I want from you.”